The Cost of Affection
by Thrice Written
Summary: Being a whore is easy: all Arthur has to do is spread his legs and take the money. He doesn't have to face his past; nor does he have to deal with love. And for good reason - because when he does fall head-over-heels for someone, he's forced to realize that his sins go beyond prostitution, and that even as he rediscovers himself, his past is coming back to haunt him after all.
1. One

**The Cost of Affection**

(I'm not going to list the pairings this time; you'll find out as you go)

**R18**

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><p><strong>Author's Notes<strong>:

Dedicated to **Purple Riceball**/**Tokyo-Milk** - it's your birthday present, darling, even though this isn't quite . . . birthday-present material. But I hope you like it anyway. ^^

Many thanks to **Janigrl**, who has agreed to beta this story. XD

**WARNING:** there is going to be blunt, unromantic sex. And (since I've planned this out in advance) I'm going to say right now, without giving spoilers, that there are going to be certain events/revelations later in the story that will most likely make some readers uncomfortable. It's not an untouched subject (in fact, I've seen so much of it, I kind of want to throw up, haha), but I want to shed light on it in a way different from what already exists in the fandom. And it's not going to be pretty.

So please bear with me - and you're welcome to stop reading any time you want. I'll understand. But even so, I still want to know what you thought of it, so please take ten seconds to review, okay? Reviews change a writer's world in a way that writing itself can't.

And, like always, Hetalia is mine in heart only, not in ownership. :/

-x-x-x-

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><p><strong>One<strong>

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><p>Exhaustion. It overtook Arthur's senses until he could barely think, barely comprehend what was happening, even though it was what he got himself into night after night. The sheets scraped against his back in an uncomfortable, tedious rhythm that made his skin ache and his heavy eyelids feel even heavier. He hoped it would be over soon.<p>

Out of habit, he reached down the length of his nude body and spread his fingers, forking them around the thick cock buried deep inside him as if he was trying to stretch himself open even farther. He threw his head back in contrived ecstasy. He'd learned long ago that customers often paid more after hearing him moan and gasp, after watching him put on a sexy, raunchy show. The finger trick was a good visual, something that helped his image and the concept behind it. Something that appeared to say, _I'm a whore; I was made to be fucked and abused._

Not that it wasn't the truth. But it was a truth that needed constant reinforcement if he wanted others to believe it.

The dick pistoning in and out of him stopped and _twitched_. Arthur had to fight back a grimace. He hated that, hated when the client had such a huge shaft that he could _feel_ it spasming inside him like a live, skittery animal.

Cum filled his passage as the thing shuddered through its climax. Arthur arched his back and tightened his sphincter obediently, drew a moan out of the man as he milked him, then let his body collapse back onto the hotel bed. He tried not to curse as the cock was yanked out of him without warning — suppressed it into a shaky inhale instead — and lay still, allowing the sticky, foreign moisture to leak down the curve of his backside and onto his thighs. It was always what the customer wanted to see. It was what they _all_ wanted to see, every single one of them, no matter their level of depravity or experience. Arthur supposed it was because it made it seem like he belonged to them.

To them, the semen now lining his skin in disgusting trails was an indication of his being dominated, proof that he'd been beaten into submission and turned into a nice, compliant fuck toy without actually making his "owner" go through the hassle of getting there. Like a cheat of sorts — a shortcut. Or maybe it was just some sick fantasy that the client, due to one reason or another, was unable to fulfill in his normal life and instead saved it for prostitutes and hotel rooms.

Arthur couldn't claim to know the whys and wherefores behind his clients' preferences. He was a whore, not a psychologist, and frankly, he liked it better that way. Psychologists had more to deal with than he did, what with analyzing charts and tracking behavioral patterns and putting up with the general stupidity of the human race. Or whatever it was that psychologists did for a living.

All _he_ had to do was spread his legs, please the customer, and take the money. And that was that. The intelligence of the client had no factor in what they did, except when it was to ask whether or not Arthur was capable of bending himself into a physically impossible position, or if he would mind riding because missionary apparently strained the pelvis or some other bullshit like that.

Overall, compared to a lot of people, he had it easy. He didn't have to direct his own life and sort out the problems that were hurtled his way; others did it for him. It came part and parcel with his occupation.

And Arthur was completely fine with it. He couldn't imagine any other sort of life.

"Hey."

The word made Arthur snap back to the present. He lifted his head. "Yes?" he said warily, looking up at his client. There was rarely conversation or any interaction at all, aside from fucking, foreplay, and handing over the cash (and sometimes not even that, because Gilbert took care of most of the financial matters). The names uttered in the heat of the moment — names of exes, of family members, even of children, all forbidden loves that shouldn't have existed yet still did — usually passed him by; he'd learned to ignore them, let them wash over him in meaningless waves. He had no right to pry into the business of others . . . and he had no desire to do so, anyhow. The best thing to do was act like it never happened; like he didn't hear the man who muttered about his dead wife, didn't hear another one whispering his son's name while he rammed into Arthur over and over as if the world was falling apart. Arthur didn't want to know, so he didn't listen.

But this one, this client, was talking _directly_ to him. And it wasn't until Arthur focused on him amid the dimmed lights in the room that he recognized the stony face and stiff military posture and blue-violet eyes. His stomach twisted.

"Yes?" he repeated, his voice colder.

The man shifted. "Don't tell him. Don't tell Feli that I've been seeing you." He was wringing his hands nervously, glancing at the closed door like his sweet little Italian boyfriend might be standing behind it, listening in.

Arthur almost couldn't believe it. What reason did he have to tell? Why would he care at all? And it wasn't like he saw Feliciano walking down the street every day. What had happened there would stay there, within that dark hotel room, if only because there was no way to find the betrayed lover and whisper poison into his ear. "I won't tell him," he said flatly, and resisted the temptation to add, _Though you might want to say something to Gilbert. He, unlike me, knows the both of you, and he never keeps his mouth shut._

"_Danke_," Ludwig said quietly, so quietly that it was almost a whisper. Arthur pretended not to hear him and turned his head into the pillow, curling his legs under him. He would have to take a quick shower once he was alone. And he was tired, his eyes raw and gritty beneath their lids. . . .

He was drifting off when he heard the sound of the door opening, then clicking closed again as the German stepped out, presumably to find his brother to pay him the money he owed for taking Arthur to bed.

It was a sound that Arthur could never seem to stop hearing.


	2. Two

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><p><strong>Two<strong>

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><p>Gilbert was selective about the people he let fuck Arthur.<p>

He required blood tests from the clients who claimed they were clean, and forced the ones who weren't to use condoms. Arthur knew it was because he didn't want to deal with STDs or a sick prostitute.

Honestly, who did?

The albino man rewarded people for their trouble by giving them free reign to Arthur's body for a smaller pay-by-visit fee. Thus, Arthur often saw the same face, often had the same cock pushed into his mouth or his ass, several times a month. Sometimes even several times a week, if one of the clients was particularly insatiable. He hardly ever saw anybody new these days.

Which was why, when Gilbert called him two hours ago and said, "New one's waiting for you at Sundale tonight," Arthur was curious.

But only vaguely, because he wasn't supposed to care.

He was brought out of his thoughts by a spike of acute pain piercing the end of his tailbone. Arthur rolled his head back to center, flashing a glare up at the blond-haired man smiling serenely above him. "Goddamn, that _hurt_," he hissed.

"My apologies, _mon cher_. But you are accepting me so eagerly today, I cannot help myself —"

Trying to twist his hips into a better position, Arthur glowered up at the man. He knew Francis was doing it on purpose, going in at an angle that was meant to hurt, because the damn frog was better at sex than anyone else he'd slept with and wasn't _capable_ of not bringing Arthur pleasure unless it was intentional. Most likely the man wanted something, and had decided to make Arthur suffer for it.

Which made him just like everybody else.

Another sharp breath forced its way through his teeth; the ache in his lower vertebrae was steadily increasing as Francis continued to pound against them. Not wanting to give the other the satisfaction of seeing him cave, Arthur screwed his eyes shut and bore the pain until each thrust drew a muted gasp from him, his nether regions beginning to go unpleasantly numb. Finally, he panted, "What the hell do you want? Just say it and stop" — he threw his head back as Francis's fingers found his softening dick — "stop torturing me like this." He pressed his lips together to prevent any unwanted noises from escaping.

Besides fingering his hole open and jamming themselves in, his clients tended to leave most of his body alone during sex. Maybe they'd pinch his nipples at half-hearted intervals, or sink their unbrushed teeth into his neck during climax, but either way, Arthur's enjoyment was never high on their lists. Never even _on_ their lists. Francis only touched him to make Arthur helpless, vulnerable, and wanton, and not because he actually cared enough to want Arthur to feel good.

But today it seemed the man knew that though Arthur was a whore — someone who had fucked and was fucking and would fuck anyone and let them fuck him — he rarely ever got to feel anything himself. So perhaps he was simply taking pity on a love-deprived wretch when his fingers stroked Arthur's length, watching it harden in his hand with commiseration on his face and indifference in his eyes.

"Oh, _Christ_." It came out on its own as Arthur let his guard down. "Francis . . . oh, God . . ."

"I am not God," Francis reminded him, sounding amused as he pumped him. Arthur closed his eyes. He was beginning to come; he could feel it. His stamina, faced with direct stimulation, was crumbling. He welcomed the warm feeling bursting in dulled fireworks through his veins like an old friend.

Only to feel iron fingers tighten around the base of his cock.

Francis leaned forward, his hair brushing Arthur's hot face. He said softly, "You'll come only when I let you." And he resumed the back-breaking tempo of thrusts into Arthur until Arthur could no longer see anything but electric white, could almost _taste_ his own release but unable to reach it. He figured it out then: Francis must have been rejected by another one of his lovers, because it was only during times like these that he ever wanted to hurt Arthur, to prove to him that he would continue to hurt, to suffer, to want, until Francis gave him what he so desperately needed.

It was because Francis missed being in control of his own life. Because, unlike Arthur, he was a nobody and a nothing when he wasn't calling the shots. And it filled him with an anger that he showed by abusing Arthur's body.

Arthur knew Francis wanted to make him feel his pain, and make him bleed for his privilege of being a follower instead of a leader. So he tipped his head into the pillow and took it without any further complaint, because he knew he couldn't stop him anyway.


	3. Three

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><p><strong>Three<strong>

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><p>He was shoved through the door of their apartment by Gilbert, who slammed it closed and twisted the lock into place. The action carried with it a sense of finality, one that reminded Arthur of hotel room doors closing, of being left alone in the darkness. Cold rage radiating from the albino scorched him; even in his half-asleep state, Arthur felt the beginning tingles of fear in the pit of his stomach. He slid his shoes off and moved to put his coat aside — then found himself pinned to the wall, Gilbert's hand around his throat.<p>

"You. You — what the fuck were you thinkin'?"

Arthur automatically focused his gaze over Gilbert's shoulder, on the room's opposite wall. Gilbert hated it when Arthur made eye contact with him when he was angry, as Arthur knew from experience. Whores did not look their superiors in the eye. They didn't deserve to. And apparently Gilbert had decided this whore didn't deserve to breathe, either, because his fingers were tightening incrementally, choking off Arthur's windpipe, blunt nails digging into the hollow just below his jaw.

Black sparks danced in Arthur's vision, but he just stood still and took it. The fight-or-flight reaction in him flickered, flared briefly, then died; it wasn't working properly anymore, not after it'd been triggered so many times in the past few years. He waited for Gilbert to list his grievances and found himself gradually retreating backward into the recesses of his mind, pushed away by the lack of oxygen. That wasn't good. He wouldn't be able to hear anything at all after another handful of seconds. He wished Gilbert would say whatever it is he wanted to say, so he would know what it was he did wrong this time — or just go ahead and strangle him into unconsciousness. Either one was fine with him as long as the man would just choose instead of leaving him adrift in this agonizing limbo.

From far, far away came Gilbert's voice again. "You stupid little slut, you were givin' Francis shit again, weren't ya?"

More pressure. Arthur couldn't keep his eyes open anymore; not that it made any difference, because his vision was long gone, gray and muddled and streaked with nothingness.

"You thought he wouldn't tell me? I've told ya so many fuckin' times to keep your mouth fuckin' shut unless you're blowin' someone. When the hell is it gonna to get through to your goddamn brain? You're gonna make us lose customers, you stupid fuck," Gilbert snarled.

By now, Gilbert could have said anything and it wouldn't garner a reaction. Arthur's knees were weakening; he was sliding down into Gilbert's grip, a moment away from passing out —

Then the floor rushed up and slammed against his stinging tailbone as he was released. Arthur gasped, drawing in air like sweet wine, unable to get enough of it while his lungs expanded again. His heart was ramming itself into his ribs; he felt the heavy throbs throughout his whole body as he sat there, his back propped up by the wall, his eyesight returning with a vengeance. He registered very distantly the fading of footsteps farther into the apartment.

He didn't know where Gilbert was going, or what he was doing, but he knew the man was preparing Arthur's punishment.

Sure enough, the footsteps came back and he felt the rim of a glass of water being pressed to his mouth, and Gilbert's voice ordered him to drink. Arthur yielded to him, accepting a faint, bitter edge to the liquid sliding down his bruised throat, and he could guess what it was. His suspicions were confirmed when Gilbert tugged him up by the wrist and walked him into the bedroom, shoving him carelessly onto his back on the bed.

His body was arranged so that his head was at the bed-frame's wall. Gilbert was using lengths of cut cloth to lash his ankles to the bedposts, forcing Arthur to stretch his legs and keep them spread open; he moved to the head of the bed and did the same to Arthur's wrists, binding them securely to the headboard. The restraints fit snugly in the grooves of Arthur's skin like they were meant to be there.

Once the ties were done, Gilbert's hand trailed down Arthur's arm, over his chest and side and hip to his crotch. With two fingers, he unfastened Arthur's pants. The pads of his fingers ground down against Arthur's boxers and Arthur's breath hitched, a tremor running through his limbs.

"Not hard yet, huh? Well, you'll be feelin' it soon enough."

The albino's eyes flashed crimson as he glanced up. He nudged down the waistband of the boxers, exposing Arthur, then stepped back. Satisfaction twisted his lips into a grin; then he left the room. The door shut behind him with a click.

This was not the first time Gilbert had done this to him. If Arthur had to say, it was more like the eighth or ninth — it was Gilbert's way of reminding Arthur of his place, of putting him back behind the line when he toed over it. It said, You're a whore, a prisoner to both other people's wants and your own, and you better remember it. And Arthur couldn't help but do just that as the slow burn began to make its way down the length of his body. It puddled in his navel, spread into his groin. He felt heady and warm, too warm, but there was nothing he could do about it. His cock was coming to life from the artificially-induced arousal, blood pulsing through it in hot twitches that had Arthur biting his lip.

He couldn't free himself, couldn't touch himself. He had to wait until the illegal aphrodisiac — which had laced the water Gilbert had poured down his gullet — had had its way with him, and depending on the dosage, it could take anywhere from fifteen minutes to two hours for the initial heat to wear down, and possibly an additional hour for the after-effects to disappear also. He couldn't even flip over and rut against the sheets to bring himself some relief. Gilbert had been brutally methodical in making sure Arthur would learn his lesson for mouthing off to Francis.

His torment mounted with each passing minute. It hurt, it seared. Arthur could feel his mental barriers breaking down at the half-hour mark; he was bucking his hips in small, desperate movements, searching for friction that he needed but couldn't find. Half-whimpers slipped out, refusing to be muffled. The best way to ride it out, Arthur knew, was to close his eyes and let sleep take him. It was possible — he'd done it before. But then he would fall into feverish dreams, dreams about the past and his family and everything that he didn't want to remember, and sometimes enduring those was worse than enduring his waking torture.

Arthur felt like he was about to burst, like his body would combust and turn to ashes if something didn't happen soon. He wanted to come so badly that if Gilbert had returned to the room, Arthur would've begged him, would've given him a lap dance after he was freed and sucked his dick and fucked himself on his fingers, would've let the man drill him into the bed until he was ripped and bleeding, his fingers clawing the covers and drool painting the pillow under his cheek, his ass filled with so much cum that he'd be leaking it for days. He would gladly degrade himself, spread his hole open with his own thumbs, bark like a dog, allow toys and objects to be wedged into every available orifice in his body. Anything to please Gilbert, anything to encourage him into pleasing Arthur.

And now he was crying thinly, keening like a kicked puppy, hating himself and his body and the way the drug was making him feel. He wanted to die, wanted to leave and never come back; he wanted to start over even though he knew it was already too late. He wanted to never have let himself get looped into this, into a job that would have him lashed to a bed as punishment, feeling like an animal in heat. Tears of frustration and agony dripped down his face as the pain in his swollen balls spiraled tighter and tighter. He could do nothing to alleviate the discomfort.

He was helpless. He was, after all, only a whore.

Arthur must have drifted off at some point, because the next thing he knew, there was a sharp slap against his face and he jerked back into wakefulness, blinking up at the ceiling. His wrists and ankles fell to the mattress as Gilbert's blurry outline untied him from the bed.

The light filtering through the curtained windows had changed, grown dimmer and tinged with orange. It must have been late afternoon. How long had his punishment lasted? Arthur's head was woozy, and his tongue tasted and felt like sandpaper — two consequences of the damn aphrodisiac. He was immensely relieved that at least the lust was gone; his body now felt neutral and cool, and slightly sluggish.

Gilbert said, "We're leavin' for Sundale in fifteen. Get in the shower — you still smell like Francis's fuckin' cologne."

He didn't say a word about Arthur's disobedience, but he didn't need to. He never needed to.

Arthur gingerly eased himself off the bed, trying to ignore the lead weighing down his arms and legs, and limped into the bathroom, where he shed his clothing and stepped into the tub. The touch of hot water on his sore skin was a small mercy, but a mercy nonetheless.

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><p><strong>AN: A thank you to Coins Compressed for beta-ing!**


	4. Four

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><p><strong>Four<strong>

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><p>Sundale Inn was somewhat more posh than the usual standard of hotels where their sessions took place. The lobby had peach-tinted marble walls and a high ceiling that reminded Arthur of a cathedral he'd once visited back in his home country. He stared up at the crystal chandelier dangling above him and wondered who would pay for a room at such a classy place just to entertain a whore.<p>

Gilbert, who always came with him, surveyed their surroundings. Then he turned to Arthur and smirked. "What d'you think? Stylish, eh?" Arthur looked away.

"Where's the customer?" he asked, getting right down to it.

"Said he'll be here by seven. We still got five minutes." Gilbert dropped into one of the reddish leather couches near the wall, picked up a magazine, and got comfortable. The receptionist, a small woman with black hair, gave them a suspicious look. Arthur watched her impassively.

After a moment, Gilbert glanced up at him sharply. "Cut it out. You're actin' like a freak. Why don't you just sit down and chill 'til he gets here?" It _sounded_ like a suggestion. But after working under him for four years, and remembering what had happened earlier back at their apartment, Arthur knew better.

So he sat.

Three minutes ticked by in silence.

There was movement in his peripheral vision; Arthur looked up to see Gilbert checking his watch. "Any second now," the albino said in an undertone, then jerked his chin in the direction of the front desk. "Go check in. Reservation's under the last name 'Jones,' and tell her your bro's payin' for the room when he gets here."

"My _brother_?" Arthur echoed, unable to keep the disgust out of his tone.

Gilbert shrugged, his eyes glinting. "Hey, anything flies as long as it's believable. 'S not like we haven't used this setup before. Now get your ass over there and check in." His voice was still below normal volume, to prevent the woman at the desk from hearing their exchange.

"Couldn't you have said —"

"No." Gilbert's words had more bite to them now. A warning. "It's not your job to ask questions, Art. Go." He didn't use the nickname out of friendliness or camaraderie. He snapped it like a curse.

Holding his tongue, Arthur stood up and began to walk over to the front desk. The idea that he was checking into the hotel with a client that was, for the sake of appearances, his _brother_ was revolting to him. He had five brothers — rather, he had _three_ brothers back in England, along with a useless alcoholic of a father. His mother had divorced his father when he was around six, took the youngest Kirkland boy (who was not Arthur), and left for the States. She'd then apparently found someone else and got married again, having another son in the process. Hence Arthur having five brothers.

Arthur disliked her intensely. He'd often tried to figure out why she'd taken his younger brother — who he barely remembered — instead of _him_. Had she known she was leaving him in a hellhole when she walked out? Yes, she must have known, or she wouldn't have divorced his father in the first place.

The question was: had she _cared_?

Probably not, but at this point it was just pointless speculation. Arthur was in the States now, making his living as a whore. He didn't know where his mother and those two brothers were (whose names he didn't even know; he'd forgotten the older one's a long time ago, and he'd never learned the younger one's). He wasn't interested in finding them.

More than anything, he didn't want them to exist.

Because one could say that they were the reason he was so fucked up now.

"Hello, I'd like to check in. I'm waiting for my brother; he should be here shortly," Arthur said politely to the clerk. She gave him that _look_ again, the look that said she didn't trust him one whit but didn't have any evidence against him.

"Do you have a reservation?" she asked stiffly.

"Yes. Under Jones."

Her acrylic nails clacked as she typed the name into her computer. "And how will you be paying?" It was undoubtedly a question she asked every guest staying there, but it sounded like a challenge to Arthur.

"My brother will pay when he gets here."

She sent him what was reasonably close to a glare. "Then I'm afraid you'll have to wait for his arrival. He needs to sign before I can give you the key — Oh! Is that him?" She visibly defrosted, and Arthur turned to see who she was looking at.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a light, even tan and a smile that _glowed_. His hair, which was the color of ripe corn, was brushed slightly over rimless glasses and one brilliant blue eye. A stray cowlick bobbed above his hairline, rather like an antenna, and as Arthur took in his handsome features, he could almost feel his knees weakening. Because _holy Mother of God_ was the man attractive.

Was he the client Gilbert had said they were waiting for? Arthur almost didn't dare to hope. He shot a glance at Gilbert, who gave a brief, discreet nod before putting down the magazine and getting up to leave. Arthur took this to mean that the session tonight was going to be an all-nighter, which he didn't mind too much, since he didn't have a regular sleeping schedule anyway and the man he would be spending his time with was sex walking on legs (but in a good way; he was leagues above Arthur's vocation). The man, meanwhile, was fumbling through the pockets of his jeans and saying apologetically, "Give me a sec, my wallet's definitely around here somewhere." As Arthur and the receptionist continued to gawk at him, he finally fished it out of his back pocket. "Found it!"

Arthur waited as he paid for the room, and tried not to stare too much. He was obviously American — if his accent was anything to judge by — and his body was incredible. Even though he was wearing a brown bomber jacket over a T-shirt up top, the rounded muscles in his arms and chest were deliciously obvious. And the way his torso tapered down to a slim waist and strong legs that seemed to go on for forever . . . and that finely-shaped ass, curved to make the denim of his jeans cling just so . . . Arthur quickly composed himself before he could start drooling. He had to at least _act_ like the man was his brother until they got up to their room, no matter how much he wanted to jump him then and there, onlookers be damned.

And he was _jealous_. Jealous of that beautiful body — the perfect model of what Gilbert had been trying to work Arthur into since the beginning of the beginning. Arthur wasn't naturally blessed with muscles or a broad, masculine bone structure. He used to be ridiculously lean, almost anorexic, and hours upon hours of working out had given him the body of a track runner instead of a football player: lithe, wiry, flexible, and undeniably appealing — but still slim, still verging on androgynous. The American's form, on the other hand, exuded manliness and testosterone. He had the body Arthur wanted in more ways than one.

Then, with a jolt, Arthur realized this was probably the most serious reaction a customer had ever gotten out of him without doing anything. Scratch that — it was the most serious reaction a customer had gotten out of him, period. But then again, he'd never had the pleasure of sleeping with someone akin to a _god_, either.

The man's cheery demeanor began to wear off as they got into the elevator together; he became more and more jittery, his gaze darting around and landing on everything except Arthur. Arthur thought it was rather endearing. He wondered how old he was — he seemed fairly young, probably only a college student at best — and whether it was his first time hiring a prostitute. If it was, well, then that would explain his behavior. Arthur assumed he himself would be playing a role of dominance tonight, whether he topped or not.

When they got to their room, the American seemed to have trouble fitting the card into its slot. Arthur let him juggle with it for about ten seconds, then took pity and eased it out of his hand. He swiped it, pushing open the door while the man looked on sheepishly.

Once the door was locked behind them, Arthur made straight for the bed. It was queen-sized, covered with a thick cream-and-violet duvet that complimented the ivory walls of the room. He sat down on it, fisting his hands in the soft comforter. He liked the atmosphere in the room; all regal and dainty and vanilla and so unfitting of what they were there to do. It was too good for someone in his line of work, for someone who was used to dingy motel rooms and old, cracked plaster walls and layers of dust. Once again, he wondered why the American had paid for such an obviously expensive room for their session.

He finally looked up, and noticed the other man still hovering by the door like he didn't know what to do. Yes, it must have been his first time doing this; somebody more seasoned would probably have grabbed Arthur by the hair and stuffed a cock in his mouth already.

"How do you want to do this?" Arthur asked, keeping his voice low and gentle. Coaxing. Seductive. "Do you have anything specific in mind, or shall I decide?"

The American flushed. Oh, he was _so_ adorable, Arthur thought, amused. And innocent as a kitten pretending to be a full-fledged tom. "I-I don't . . . uh . . ."

"Would you like to top?"

"Yeah . . . if that's okay. I mean, I don't wanna do something if . . ." He raised his hands awkwardly. "If you don't want to." He dropped them again, looking distinctly out of place even though he was almost too beautiful to be human, standing in a room practically meant for royalty.

Arthur very nearly laughed out loud. This _had_ to be the first time a client cared about what _he_ wanted. Oh, the novelty of it. He said, "Don't concern yourself with me. I don't mind bottoming." He gestured at him in a come-hither motion, and the man obeyed, albeit rather cautiously. Arthur, distracted though he was by the other's body moving toward him, couldn't resist adding, "You can relax. I won't bite . . . unless you want me to."

"People request that?" The American wrinkled his brow. He was so unworldly, it was almost refreshing. Arthur was tired of being around dirty-minded, middle-aged businessmen all the time.

"Well, not biting specifically, but some do like it rougher." Why was he _talking_? That wasn't his job. Shutting himself up, he reached down and, grabbing the hem of his own shirt, tugged it over his head. His ribs weren't as pronounced as they used to be, but they still had Gilbert frowning and prodding at him every now and then as a reminder for Arthur to eat more — all for business's sake, of course. His client, however, didn't seem to mind; he was ogling Arthur shyly, his cheeks dusted an even brighter red than before.

Just to tease him, Arthur tossed his shirt aside, hiked his legs up onto the bed, and spread them as wide as they could comfortably go. He began tracing his fingers along his inseam, stopping just short of actually touching his groin, before running them back in the opposite direction. He let out a breathy little moan for effect. It came naturally, which caught him slightly off guard. He didn't usually get very aroused, especially since he did it on average two or three times a day, but — even though they hadn't properly started yet — this man already seemed to be a lot of firsts for him. He wasn't weary and old and apathetic like any of Arthur's other clients, for one.

Nor did he treat Arthur like a means to an end, for another.

He was watching Arthur with a different expression now. His gaze was still tentative, still hesitant, but something was beginning to surface in his prairie-sky eyes: lust, that familiar, ageless hunger that drove the body to sinful lengths. Lust, a beginning and an end that became Arthur's four years ago. Lust, which had ravished his body and mind that afternoon as he was bound to the bed, claiming and consuming him.

Arthur knew his thoughts were straying too far, which wasn't supposed to happen since whores weren't meant to think. So he regained concentration, grabbed the man by his wrists, and gently pulled him forward. He caught his sharp intake of breath, and relished it. The bomber jacket fell to the floor; Arthur gave another tug, and they spilled across the bed together.

The foreplay was so slow, so tender, so sickeningly sweet and exploratory that they might have been lovers instead of a prostitute and his client. In the past, Arthur was indifferent, mechanical, even though he made sure to put on a good show, and his customers were just as detached and thoughtless as he was. He tried to be like that with the American, but he felt his mask slipping as trembling hands skimmed over his chest, his navel, his hips. There was sincerity in the gentleness, so unfamiliar to Arthur that he almost didn't know what it was. He found himself reacting, his back arching and curving, his body catching aflame as the man's indescribably _essential_ scent filled his nose. His hands grabbed fistfuls of fabric.

He was truly a whore.

They were grinding with a steady, focused rhythm that Arthur had started and now expertly maintained. He remembered his job and unhooked his grasp on the American's T-shirt to push it off, his fingers lingering on the newly-exposed stretch of skin on his chest, toned and firm with his pecs taut just below the surface. Now _he_ was the one who was greedy and insatiable, as if he was nothing but an eager virgin having sex for the first time. It was an intoxicating feeling; up until then, he'd only felt it once and it was when Gilbert found him on the streets and fucked him against a wall in a dark alley, back when Arthur was so clueless and innocent he'd thought he was in love because he'd found somebody willing to touch him.

Lost in the faint memory, he almost didn't have the presence of mind to reel himself back in to take off the rest of their clothes, but he managed to wedge a hand between them. Using it as leverage, he pushed against the other man's sternum, softly forcing him up and off, and mourned the loss of heat as their lower halves moved apart. He wanted it back, wanted to _touch_. But he couldn't lose his head like this. It wasn't acceptable. Mentally, Arthur drew back, forcing everything back into objectivity.

The nervous look returned to the American's face, joined by something bordering on panic. He snatched his hands back as if he'd been burned — or as if he'd burned Arthur. "D-did I hurt you? I'm sorry, I'm so sor —"

Breathing controlled, Arthur said, "No, it's nothing like that. But we _do_ have to get naked before we can go further, and I need some space for that." The American gave a small, embarrassed grin.

"Yeah, of course, I . . . yeah." He climbed backward onto his knees and kicked off his shoes, removing his socks soon after. Arthur followed suit. He placed a hand across the other man's large knuckles, though, when he moved to undo his jeans, which gave the other pause.

Quickly shimmying out of his own pants and underwear and discarding them, Arthur leaned forward, letting his spine curve at what he knew was a delectable angle, his bare ass raised coyly in the air. He put both hands on the American — one on each powerful thigh — and eased himself forward, looking up into those depthless pools of blue and whispering deliberately, "Let me." Then he took the zipper in his teeth, pulling it down, and tried not to remember the number of times Gilbert had forced him to do this, forced him to practice until his lips were torn and raw and bloody from being caught again and again in the tiny metal tines.

The material of the man's boxers felt damp, heavy, and his erection rubbed against Arthur's nose once the jeans were completely undone. Down here, he smelled hot, musky, _excited_. It made Arthur's own body stir, which he ignored for the moment as he began to mouth the covered dick in lewd, loose circles, eliciting the expected reaction from his client — a sharp exhale, tensing muscles, hands brushing up his shoulders on their way to grip his hair and press him closer.

But the American let go almost as soon as he'd touched him. Arthur flicked a glance upward, and saw the guilty, apologetic expression on the other's face. Wordlessly, to let the man know that it was okay for him to do what he wanted, he reached up and guided one of the hands back to his head, and felt the fingers curl against his scalp again. Satisfied, he tugged down the elastic band hindering his way, took a deep breath through his nostrils, and plunged the hard cock into his mouth.

His knees were aching from digging into the mattress, and his back creaked a bit, but it wasn't anything new. Arthur merely tuned out the discomfort like it was a conversation he didn't want to hear. He knew it wouldn't matter until his shoulder blades began hurting, and that usually took a good amount of time.

The man's pre-cum lay thickly on his tongue. Arthur didn't much like the taste of it; then again, it meant nothing to him. It wasn't his place to complain, and he had had much more than just the beginnings of pre-sperm in his mouth before, so he continued working his mouth up and down the length, shutting his eyes and letting his mind drift a little to distract himself. Worming his finger through a belt loop, he gave a pointed yank. The American caught on and clumsily shucked the jeans off while trying to keep Arthur in contact with his dick. The head of it rammed up into the back of Arthur's throat, making Arthur's eyes water in pain.

Throwing his pants and boxers aside, the young man began apologizing again as Arthur jerked back with a cough and a mild glare. They were both naked now, and as the other continued to ramble, Arthur took a few seconds to skim his scrutiny over his body. He almost shook his head in disbelief; he hadn't thought it would be possible to tan so _evenly_.

"Perhaps we should move on," he said, cutting off the senseless babble of words pouring from the American's mouth. Then he swore inside his head when he realized he'd forgotten to bring lubrication. An amateur's mistake, one that Arthur really shouldn't have made.

Well, he had no choice but to improvise. He'd learned over the years that spit worked at the start, but quickly became ineffective as it dried. He needed something that would be longer-lasting, something like hand lotion, which — he knew — most inns provided in skimpy sample bottles. Getting up, Arthur went to look for some in the bathroom. He spotted what he was searching for in a little woven basket next to the sink and returned to his client with his find, deftly twisting off the cap as he went and squeezing a dollop into his palm.

Arthur rubbed the lotion in his hand for a bit to warm it up, then spread it onto his fingers. He asked the other man (who had been watching attentively, biting his lip as if he'd realized that this was really going to happen and that he was truly going to fuck a prostitute), "Do you need a condom?" Gilbert usually showed him the blood test results beforehand, but he hadn't had time today because he'd been so intent on giving Arthur what he deserved, and Arthur had the impression that his client wouldn't lie about it anyway.

He received a blink and a "No . . . I'm clean" in reply.

"Good, that makes matters simpler, then." Arthur placed the lotion bottle on the nightstand and climbed back onto the bed, positioning himself so that he was on all fours, his ass on full display. He looked back at the man, whose gaze was pinned to the curve of Arthur's backside and the delicate pucker of his hole. "Would you like to prepare me, or would you prefer to watch me do it myself?"

"Um . . ." Arthur saw that he was at a loss.

"Why don't you watch for now? You can always try it later tonight, if you want to," he offered. Looking relieved, the American nodded, and sat back on his haunches to watch as Arthur prodded at his own entrance and slipped two slick fingers past the ring of muscle.

A shudder raced down his spine, and he let his head fall forward to rest on his forearm. He forced himself to remember that this wasn't about his own pleasure, and instead of probing for his prostate like he did when he masturbated, he swirled his fingers around in a circular motion, coating his inner walls with lotion. He made sure to smear plenty on the outside too, around his anus, to reduce unwanted friction later. After adding another finger, his movements became rougher; he focused on loosing himself up for penetration and hissed softly into the pillow when his fingernail accidentally scraped against his prostate.

Finally, he was satisfied that he had been stretched enough. Raising himself back up, Arthur turned around, grabbed the lotion, and tipped more into his hand. This he massaged onto his client's cock, before he bent over again and said quietly, "I'm ready. You can put it in." He braced himself and closed his eyes as he felt the American push in hesitantly. The angle felt awkward, so Arthur widened his legs and adjusted his hips a little — which made the man behind him make a desperate sort of sound and begin moving inside him in short, eager thrusts.

And, somehow, he managed to slam into Arthur's prostate with each movement.

Drowning in the sensation, Arthur made a mental note of his exact position, and filed it away in his mind for future reference before allowing the pleasure to wash out everything else. He was only faintly aware of the whimpers and moans that escaped him, and didn't even care when the lotion turned out to be more sticky than smooth and caused his opening to burn almost as soon as they began.

At some point, Arthur was on his back, and he felt the American's whisper brush against his ear as their bodies molded together, "What's your name?"

Arthur breathed in response, mainly to humor him a bit, "It's not important . . . tell me yours . . ."

"But that's not fair —" The American gasped when Arthur simultaneously bit him on the throat and rolled his nipple between his thumb and forefinger. "Dammit — it's — Alfred —"

"Alfred," repeated Arthur, testing it out. It was a round, wholesome word, surprisingly saccharine, like candy melting in his mouth. "Alfred."

This proved to be both of their undoing. Alfred's breathing reached a crescendo, and he practically flattened Arthur against the bed as he threw the last of his strength into his climax, pulling out just in time for his release to splash all over Arthur's abdomen. Absorbed as he was in the other man's pleasure, Arthur wasn't used to getting off himself during his sessions — and found, to his surprise, that the sperm painting his stomach was not all Alfred's. He couldn't remember the last time he'd come while playing the role of a whore. It felt . . . unexpectedly good.

They lay in silence, catching their breath. As he waited for Alfred's refractory period to pass, Arthur rolled away from under him, and absently tugged the covers over his upper body, taking no notice of the cum now crusting on his skin. "Alfred," he said, feeling strangely pensive. Alfred shifted.

"Yeah?"

"Nothing is fair."

Puzzlement now. "What?" said Alfred. Arthur felt the mattress dip as he sat up behind him. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing." Closing his eyes, Arthur left it at that.


	5. Five

**-x-x-x-**

* * *

><p><strong>Five<strong>

* * *

><p>It had been a week since Arthur slept with Alfred Jones, and he was already all Arthur could think about. At times like these, Arthur was glad that he wasn't a teenager anymore — because if he <em>was<em> one, he would probably be having a wet dream every other night about the man. And if that was the case, then Gilbert would undoubtedly force him to lick the sheets clean as punishment.

But no matter how hard he tried, Arthur's thoughts still wandered . . . as did his hand, especially while he was alone and within the confines of the bathroom. He noted vaguely that he had been touching himself a lot more often in the past seven days, and wondered if it was because of his body's haywire chemistry or because of the clumsy, sky-eyed American god who had fucked him into the mattress at Sundale Inn. And that line of contemplation invariably led Arthur to wonder if Alfred would be coming back for more.

He was confident in his own abilities in bed — what experienced whore wasn't? — so that wasn't a concern. But thinking back to his memories of that night, of how distant and evasive he'd been toward Alfred during the latter half of their session . . . maybe after that, Alfred had decided that casual, no-emotions-attached prostitutes like Arthur weren't for him. Maybe he'd decided that he preferred them hot, beautiful, and passionate, preferred those high-class debauchees that wore nice clothes and sexy cologne and had Hollywood-esque friends and all that other fancy shit, prostitutes who blew cock like it was a fashionable lifestyle instead of a way to get money.

In short, the exact opposite of what Arthur was and had and did.

Maybe Alfred had decided that Arthur wasn't good enough for him, after all.

Shutting down that train of thought before it could derail, Arthur rolled out of bed — Gilbert had had a new one delivered, a single that was just for Arthur, and put it in the tiny storage-closet-like room next to the actual bedroom — and made his way into the bathroom, adjusting the waistband of his sweatpants. His internal clock told him it was early, maybe around seven, but Gilbert was already out. Gilbert rarely loitered around the apartment in the mornings; Arthur didn't complain.

He used the toilet, brushed his teeth, and headed back into his room to get his cell phone and check his text messages. There were two: one sent at six-thirty and the other slightly before it. Whenever Gilbert texted, he limited each message to the details and specific requests (if they had any) of one customer. Which meant that, as of now, Arthur had two customers to entertain in the next twenty-four hours.

Since the second message was at the top of the list, Arthur opened that one first.

_Francis Bonnefoy. 5:30 PM to 7:00 PM. Roswell Hotel. You know how to get there._

Arthur hadn't seen Francis since their last session a week ago . . . which, come to think of it, was also the same day he'd first been hired by Alfred. Thinking of the American was more than enough to get Arthur hot under the collar again — and he cursed himself for getting distracted so easily.

"_You know how to get there._" Did that mean Gilbert wasn't going to be home in time to get him to the hotel? Perhaps the first message provided an explanation. Arthur scrolled down and selected it.

And nearly dropped the phone.

_Alfred Jones. 2:00 PM to 4:30 PM. Sundale Inn.  
><em>_Got some stuff to take care of, not gonna be back 'til six. Take a cab or something. Don't be late._

Alfred. _Alfred_. Arthur almost couldn't believe it.

He was going to see Alfred again.

Then he kicked himself mentally. _Don't be such a needy slut_, he thought, but bit back a smile nevertheless. He made note of the places and times of both appointments and shut off his phone. Seven hours. He had seven hours, seven hours to do whatever he wanted, seven hours free from Gilbert's watchful eye.

Yet Arthur's mind held nothing but thoughts of Alfred.

_Might as well get ready early_, he reasoned as he turned and went back into the bathroom. Opening one of the cabinets beneath the sink, Arthur pulled out a folded tube, a container of sodium phosphate, and a small, half-used bottle of gel. He winced in distaste as he gathered the supplies on the counter; he hated enemas, but they were an everyday necessity in his profession. Gilbert had taught him how to do it himself from day one, so that wasn't the problem, but Arthur had never gotten use to the intensely unpleasant feeling — both physical and mental — that accompanied the procedure. Enemas made his insides cramp, and they also served as reminders of how disgusting and worthless he was. Reminders that Arthur didn't need. With some reluctance, he unfolded the tube and began to rub gel onto the end that he was planning to insert into himself.

He completed the rest of the process in less than ten minutes. After flushing the toilet, rinsing out the tube, and replacing everything under the sink, he washed his hands and met his own gaze in the mirror. Not out of vanity — he'd never had any to begin with, and he likely wouldn't have any to end with, either — but because he was mildly curious. He hadn't seen his own reflection properly in a while, and he wondered if he'd changed.

Light green eyes, flecked with darker olive tones, surrounded by skin so pale it was nearly translucent. Thick, ungainly eyebrows that were a shade or two darker than his hair. Sharp cheekbones. A defined, angular jaw that made him look slightly underfed. His nose was narrow and delicate, almost feminine, but his lips lacked the fullness that would complement the rest of his face. There was a silvery scar along his right temple, from the time Gilbert had thrown a broken beer bottle at his head in anger, and four faint white cresents high on his left cheek that dragged downward like smudged paint, marks left by one of his older brothers during a fight that occurred so long ago and over something so trivial that Arthur wouldn't have remembered _remembering_ it at all if the scars hadn't been there to remind him.

Together, all of these features formed the face that he had worn for the past four years: the face of a practiced whore. The face of harship, depravity, and submission. The face of Arthur Kirkland. There was almost no trace left of his adolescence on the surface, and his childhood had long since faded into oblivion. He had nothing but what stared back at him through the mirror. He had already changed so much that he'd ceased changing, that it was no longer possible to change.

Looking at himself, Arthur felt centuries older than twenty-three. He quickly averted his eyes and ducked out of the bathroom, intent on leaving the apartment and the hollow feeling in his gut behind. He wanted to forget, if just for a few hours, that he had chosen this life — that he had chosen, and was now paying for it with his past and his future and everything in between. His sacrifice, he realized, was the cost of the affection he had sought; his sullied body and mind were worth just as little and just as much as what he couldn't have.


	6. Six

**-x-x-x-**

* * *

><p><strong>Six<strong>

* * *

><p>After walking aimlessly around the city until noon and feeling the early winter wind lash his cheeks, Arthur returned to the apartment. He hadn't eaten anything beyond a protein bar since the night before, but he wasn't feeling particularly hungry.<p>

It wasn't a new development. His lack of appetite had been an issue ever since boarding school, and it would probably continue to be one for the rest of his life, no matter how much Gilbert nagged him to eat. No, he had nothing against food, but that one memory still lingered, the memory that Arthur — try as he might — could not erase from his conscience. . . .

Two more hours until the appointment at Sundale Inn.

A shower, other miscellaneous preparations (which included shaving his legs and trimming the pubic hair around his groin), and putting on clothes took a little under forty-five minutes. Letting his eyes flutter closed, Arthur toweled his hair dry and let his thoughts stray toward Alfred again. He regretted it almost immediately, because it took all of fifteen seconds for his body to respond, his jeans tightening correspondingly as arousal flushed through him. Damn, he hadn't gotten hard so fast since puberty had had its way with him. It was annoying and and thilling and more than a little humiliating that he would be affected this way just by the _thought_ of Alfred.

Arthur glanced toward the hall closet — where, he knew, Gilbert kept his collection of sex toys and BDSM props — and was more than tempted to grab a dildo and satisfy his sudden craving, but decided against it. Exhausting himself shortly before a session with a client was definitely not a good idea, despite how much he needed a cock inside him, spreading him open, coaxing him to his peak. . . .

Oh, now he was just being stupid. _I'll have a cock inside me soon enough, _Arthur thought dryly. _Alfred's cock, no less. No need to be impatient._ So instead of masturbating, he rolled onto his bed, set the alarm on his phone for half an hour, and proceeded to nap off the effects of his overenthusiastic sex drive. Thankfully, no dreams visited him in his sleep.

When he woke up, it was time to go.

The cab ride took longer than Arthur had thought it would — traffic was more disagreeable than usual that afternoon, and though the driver wasn't exactly cautious in his navigation, he had nothing on Gilbert's demonic recklessness. Arthur scraped his nails against the old vinyl upholstery, trying to ignore the cheap smell of pine that clung to the seat, and alternated between staring out the window at the gray, uniform cityscape and rubbing at a worn patch on his black jeans. The jut of his own knee startled him as his fingertips brushed over it; had it always been that bony?

The cab took a turn into the parking lot of Sundale Inn and pulled over at the entrance. A family of four — a mother, a father, their son, and their young daughter — was unloading their luggage onto the curb. Arthur paid the driver and got out. Just as he was about to walk past the family and into the building, the little girl dropped something, a marble of some kind. It rolled across the paved ground and bumped against Arthur's shoe.

She peeped at him from behind blond braids, her soft jade eyes glittering, too shy to come closer and retrieve her toy. Arthur couldn't help but smile. He picked up the marble and offered it to her; she hurried forward in a flurry of skirts to take it before murmuring a timid "thank you" and running back to her parents. Her brother looked up, meeting Arthur's eyes over her shoulder. His gaze narrowed into a distrusting glare. Arthur took that as his cue to move on. Since his purpose at the inn wasn't quite legal, it wouldn't be wise to draw too much unnecessary attention to himself before he was inside.

The girl's hand had been warm against his own when she took back her marble. And suddenly Arthur was disgusted with himself, utterly revolted, that he had let himself touch someone so sweet, so pure and harmless, had let her make contact with his contaminated self. He felt as if he was carrying some vile disease, and that he had passed it on to the little girl, that he had ruined her life by allowing it to brush against his own even though it had only been for a brief second.

Misfortune was supposed to be contagious, and Arthur had no reason to believe that his _wasn't_.

He stepped into the lobby, still filled with an awful slimy feeling, and almost instantly caught sight of Alfred. The American was loitering in the corner, apparently too nervous to sit down. He wore that familiar bomber jacket, open over an unbuttoned flannel shirt and a white tank top, and was just as much a heartthrob as Arthur remembered him being. Arthur's eyes dropped lower, down to his cargo pants, and that was as far as he got in checking him out before Alfred saw him too and flushed red like someone had poured food dye through his veins. He meekly followed Arthur to the front desk.

It was a different receptionist this time, Arthur noted. Average height, curly brown hair, freckles. A faux smile. Bland, uninquisitive, someone who didn't appear to be the sharpest knife in the drawer. Someone who was well-suited to their cause.

"Hi," said Alfred once they were standing in front of the woman, and handed over a credit card. "I've got a room reserved under Jones." Arthur could feel his heat and the faint trembling in his limbs, even though their bodies were several inches apart. His own libido woke up, still fresh and tingling despite its hour-long dormancy, and Arthur had to physically jam his hands into his own pockets to keep them from wandering all over Alfred.

The receptionist smiled at them. "Here's your key, Mr. Jones."

Alfred reached out to take it, the backs of his knuckles ghosting unintentionally over Arthur's arm on the way up. Arthur's heart started beating overtime; he saw the racing pulse right below Alfred's jaw and fancied it matched his own.

They nearly collided in their haste to get inside the privacy of their room.

Once he'd slammed the bolt home, Arthur spun around and dropped to his knees, his hands rapidly working Alfred's pants open. He rooted among the folds of fabric, extracted the mostly-flaccid dick he found, and closed his mouth around it without warning. Alfred gasped above him — from surprise or lust, Arthur wasn't sure, but he tightened his lips and _sucked_ and it all stopped mattering because the cock in his mouth was growing, pushing against his caved-in cheeks, and his own erection was burning between his legs and begging for attention and _oh Christ_ he needed to touch himself so badly it fucking _hurt_ . . .

Then he was being pushed away, the suction of his mouth on Alfred's cock breaking with a _pop_. Arthur looked up, disoriented, and saw Alfred's hot face shaking back and forth. He was saying something, mumbling, "Hold on, I don't wanna come yet," and all of a sudden Arthur was on his back on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, the carpet rubbing his spine raw through his shirt. His jeans and underwear were maneuvered off his hips, Alfred's calloused hands spreading his thighs apart with an urgency that flowed between their bodies like a river broken free of a dam.

Fingertips pressed against his hole, seeking entry, and the pain was sharp enough to snap Arthur back into his right mind for a moment. "Nngh — no, wait —" he hissed, twisting away instinctively and clawing at his discarded jeans, fumbling for the tube of lubrication he'd remembered to bring this time. Seeming to understand, Alfred joined him in the search, their hands a tangled mess as they got in each other's way, and finally the prize was found and Alfred's fingers were pushing into Arthur again, slick and cold with gel and rougher than necessary but Arthur couldn't stop himself from reacting, from willingly impaling himself on the digits inside him.

Soon those fingers withdrew, leaving Arthur's hole to shutter closed again as he panted for breath. In the blink of an eye, Alfred's dick was nudging him, burrowing into him, settling deep inside his tight, lube-soaked ass. Arthur scrabbled at the carpet for purchase and found none. He flung his head back, his body rippling against the floor as Alfred began to thrust into him, setting a vigorous pace that sent Arthur's thoughts spiraling into nothing.

The act dissolved into feelings and fire, immeasurable by time; one motion blurred into the next and Arthur was being twisted into positions he'd never found comfortable but Alfred was slamming into him at exactly the right angle, and there was so much pleasure surging through him that he ceased to care about the coiling ache in his shoulders and legs and hips and waist, and simply let go and let himself drown in the kaleidoscope of sensation. He'd had intense sex before, had had his mind blown countless times by Gilbert or Francis — the two masters of the bedroom that had laid claim on Arthur's body at one point or another in the past — but this, being with Alfred, was different. Alfred did not seek to dominate. He fucked Arthur with enough force to make Arthur's ribcage creak in protest, but his movements held no demands, no genuine harshness, and his hands were so incredibly gentle as they whispered down Arthur's skin under his shirt. Alfred's handsomeness was well-rounded, safe, straightforwardly enticing, a whole spectrum away from Francis's refined, blasé beauty, a whole _dimension_ away from Gilbert's feral, esoteric, untouchable attraction.

Arthur could feel himself coming apart. Cracking, splintering — the fragments falling into a void brimming with prairie-blue —

His orgasm hit him like a physical blow. When he was slowly tugged back down to Earth by invisible strings, he noticed that upon the departure of his high, his head had begun throbbing with the first dredges of a post-coital headache. It helped him get a grasp on reality. Above him, Alfred was still working, a sweat bead gliding down his cheek. His eyes were shut tightly behind the lenses of his glasses.

Nerves no longer seared over by desire, Arthur became aware of the awkward pose he'd been manipulated into: he was on his side, hipbone digging into the floor, his upper half turned toward Alfred, with one leg cramped under his weight and the other practically pinned against his own chest. Somewhere along the way, his shirt had been shoved up — it was now bunched around his armpits, limiting his arms. And his cum was definitely going to leave a stain on the carpet if something wasn't done about it . . .

A couple of minutes later, the intense concentration in Alfred's expression slacked as he ground into Arthur a final time. He held his place, his thighs quivering, before easing out with a soft exhale. Arthur assumed he was just like his other customers and wanted to _see_, so he kept his legs parted, allowing Alfred's semen to dribble past his stretched entrance.

Alfred, however, looked away, as if to spare Arthur the indignity of being watched in such a vulnerable state. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I didn't mean to . . . to do it inside." He adjusted his pants — he hadn't taken off a single item of clothing after they'd stumbled into the room (and he seemed to feel guilty for it), but it mattered little to Arthur, who was used to being the only one partially or fully nude — and tucked himself back into the confines of his boxers. Still keeping his gaze averted, he said, somewhat helplessly, "Should I . . . do you . . . um, need a towel or anything? I'll — I mean, you look kind of worn out, so I'll get it for you . . . if you want. . . ."

Arthur tried to get up to fetch whatever he needed on his own, since Alfred was his _client_ and his clients would never do something like that for him, but his body shook and gave out. He flopped onto his back again and felt the tics of exhaustion in his abdominal muscles. All he could do was say "Yes. Please" and trust that Alfred was as good as his word.

He was so surprised when Alfred actually came back with a towel that he almost forgot to say, "Thank you."

"Can you tell me your name now?" asked Alfred, handing it over. "Please?" He sounded so hopeful.

Arthur furrowed his eyebrows. "Why?"

"'Cause I want to know. I don't — it doesn't feel right to —"

"— have fucked someone you don't know?" finished Arthur flatly. Alfred flinched at the swear. "I'm a prostitute. I'm supposed to be anonymous — nameless. You don't need to know my name for me to do my job." Because that was all it was. A job.

Despite looking like a chastised puppy, Alfred persisted. "But . . . please, at least tell me what to call you. You already know my name, and it's only fair that I get to know yours too."

_What a childish argument. The exact same one from last time, if I remember correctly. _Truthfully, Arthur didn't see any further gain to be had in concealing his identity, so he turned away from Alfred's earnest face and prepared to tell him. His change in decision did not have anything to do with how Alfred seemed to make his resistance melt as easily as butter. Absolutely not.

"Fine. Just call me Arthur, then." He kept his tone unaffected. Somewhere deep down, in a part of him that was buried from sight, he harbored the secret hope that when those two syllables did roll from Alfred's lips, they would form more than just a name and turn him into something — turn him into _someone_ — worthy of the American. But for all Arthur knew, it was possible that it was too much to ask for, because he knew that he himself would never become worthwhile in any manner, unexpected blessing from Alfred Jones or no.

There were just too many things wrong with him and his life and his history. Far too many to count — not that he cared to count them, because sometimes he felt he was better off not knowing.


	7. Seven

**-x-x-x-**

* * *

><p><strong>Seven<strong>

* * *

><p>They were . . . cuddling.<p>

Or, at least, that was what Arthur _thought_ they were doing. He had never done it before, not with another person, so he wasn't entirely certain. But that was his closest guess.

After Arthur had cleaned himself and the floor, they'd moved to the bed and proceeded to create an even larger mess. The sheets weren't too stained, but Arthur felt sticky all over, and Alfred wasn't much better. Their clothes were scattered somewhere in the room, long since abandoned (and forgotten). Arthur's sweaty hair was beginning to dry into clumps; he sighed inwardly and knew he would have to give himself a rigorous scrubbing before he went to see Francis that night.

Alfred had an arm slung around Arthur's narrow hips, his free hand loosely cupping his bottom and occasionally straying upward to the dip of Arthur's tailbone. They were both completely naked, wound around each other on the bed like a braid that was coming undone; Arthur was hypersensitive in the places where their skin touched in ever-so-soft brushes. It felt as if someone was trailing a feather up and down his back, his chest, the outer ridges of his pelvis, the insides of his thighs — the most responsive places on his body, awoken by hard sex and something else that he didn't know what to call.

The air around them smelled of sweat and semen. _Not very romantic_, Arthur mused wryly. _But I'm not one for romance._ That was what he liked to tell himself. It made him feel vaguely — _very_ vaguely — proud of his vocation, proud that he possessed what was necessary as prostitute: a poker face, an iron heart, and a worldliness that _romance_ had no effect on.

Gilbert would be proud of him, too.

At that moment, Alfred stirred, startling Arthur (who had thought he was sleeping). Alfred's arms came all the way around Arthur's hips and shoulders, and the American gently rolled them so that Arthur was lying on his back, his head on one of the pillows, his body spread out before him like an art display. His fingertips rested at the jut of Arthur's collarbone, lingering there. Arthur tensed. _What is he doing now?_ he wondered, staring up at him.

Alfred blushed endearingly. "Um, can I . . . touch you?"

Well, Arthur couldn't exactly stop him, now, could he? Or maybe he could; he had the feeling that if he ever told Alfred to stop what he was doing, to take his hands off and leave him alone, Alfred would do just that. He would respect Arthur's wishes. He wouldn't try to force him. Part of Arthur wanted that — part of him _needed_ that: he couldn't bear to have Alfred's perfect hands wandering all over his scarred, rail-thin body, couldn't stand to have those hands exploring the unhealthy protrusions of his bones and the marred, papery texture of his skin. In a flash of insecurity, Arthur didn't want Alfred touching his cock either. Yes, he had seen it, probably even felt it rubbing hot and hard against his stomach while he was using all his strength to fuck Arthur into a permanent dent in the bed, but Arthur was suddenly aware that Alfred's penis was at least an inch bigger than his own when they were both erect. And didn't Alfred find Arthur's foreskin strange, since he himself was smooth and circumcised? Wasn't he disgusted by the sag of Arthur's testicles?

Why would he want to touch Arthur in the first place?

Under Alfred's scrutiny, compared to his beautifully-sculpted muscles and attractive features and overall perfection, Arthur felt incomplete. Ugly. _Exposed_. He began to push him away, began to tug the bedspread over himself and cover up the skeletal wreck that was his body, but the look on Alfred's face stopped him.

_Please?_ it said. Vulnerable, hopeful.

And Arthur found that he couldn't deny him.

He let his eyes fall shut. "My body is still yours for another forty minutes," he said, without feeling. "Do what you want." Maybe he'd disappointed Alfred with the indifference of his consent, but nonetheless he felt the bedsprings creak under him as Alfred sat up and moved to hover over him. Arthur's legs were lifted and carefully splayed around Alfred's waist, to give Alfred more access, and Arthur threw an arm over his head to hide his face. He didn't want Alfred to see his reaction; he wanted to stay neutral while he played along with Alfred's whim, and keep himself detached as a good prostitute would. He just couldn't bring himself to act lewd and fuckable, like he would with someone else, someone who didn't matter.

This was too personal. This was almost worst than being violated, because he didn't want Alfred to see _any_ part of him but — as his job dictated — had to let him anyway.

The two sides within him warred with each other: the one that ached to draw Alfred and his goddamn gorgeous body close, and the one that ached to keep him at bay. They surged, clashed, fell into silence again as Alfred began to run his hands down his sternum, tender and shaking, and Arthur came close to biting through his lip to muffle the whimper that rose in his throat.

Two fingers touched his nipple, traced the dusky-pink areola, forked around it; then a thumb came up to rub it in small, gentle circles. Arthur trembled with the effort of keeping still. He knew that even as he was trying to maintain his composure, his body was responding, his nipple swelling and hardening under the stimulation. Alfred seemed to appreciate it, because the thumb disappeared and now his whole palm was grazing against the sensitive nub, the callouses on his skin rough and teasing but not so much that it hurt.

Surely he could see the rapid rise and fall of Arthur's chest now, could feel the heartbeat thudding just under the pads of his fingers. If he moved lower, he would feel the sharp, pronounced arcs that were Arthur's ribs, and his hands would slide into the concave hollow of Arthur's stomach. _Maybe_ he would notice the slender muscles curving the skin right below it, but Arthur was certain he wouldn't. Not when his middle practically caved in on itself and drew all the attention.

And Arthur didn't even have to mention the network of scars that had been left all over him, courtesy of Gilbert and his teeth and his experiments with ropes and whips, candles and lighters, knives and screwdrivers with chiseled ends. Gilbert, with his love for sexual deviancy and his love for hurting Arthur.

But Alfred remained undeterred. Instead of being repelled by the scrawniness of the body below him, he seemed to find it fascinating. His touch continued to travel down, down past Arthur's stomach. Here and there, he followed a scar, traced it with as much care as he would give an open wound, then moved on to loiter for a moment on his abs — Arthur noticed his hands were still quivering a little — before easing into the faint trail of hair that began below Arthur's navel. Arthur had trimmed it close to his skin and limited it to a small patch (though he didn't have much to begin with) that he'd thought wouldn't get in the way or warrant any consideration. Apparently he hadn't done a good enough job, though, because it was now distracting Alfred, who was busy toying with the hairs and running his fingers through them.

Arthur finally lifted his arm away from his head. He had a sudden need to see Alfred's face, to know what he was feeling: was he revolted and not showing it out of courtesy, or was he actually admiring Arthur with his eyes as much as he was worshipping him with his hands?

He looked up at him, and in those ether-colored irises, saw both what he had feared and what he had longed for. And he couldn't watch any longer, couldn't stand the curiosity and discovery and intensity he saw in the eyes of the man for whom he was such an ill-fitted match, so he turned his face into the pillow and shut his eyes again.

_Why are you doing this? Why are you doing this kind of thing with _me_?_ he wanted to demand. The questions echoed inside his head, but he couldn't find a voice for them. _Why me, when you can probably have whoever you want? Why can't you play these games with people who aren't . . . aren't broken and afraid of being touched by a saint like you?_

_ Are you mocking me?_

Alfred's hands immediately stopped what they were doing, and Arthur realized he had uttered the last part out loud.

"Mocking you? I'm not mocking you!" said Alfred, so forcefully that Arthur snapped his head back to look at him again, surprised that this shy and clumsy person was capable of sounding so sure of himself. "Why would you think I'm mocking you?"

Should Arthur answer? Before he could decide, the words were already leaving his mouth. "You keep touching me in the places where I'm the ugliest, the most disgusting," he snapped, "and you keep reminding me of my worthlessness by treating me like I'm made of gold when I'm clearly not. If you're not mocking me, then what are you doing? Enjoying the bloody view?" Ah, his old British vocabulary was emerging, something that happened only when he was distressed.

Apparently stunned into silence by Arthur's uncharacteristic outburst, Alfred simply stared at him. His hands were no longer roaming; he'd taken them away, and with them, he had withdrawn his warmth. Arthur suddenly wanted them back. He wished he'd kept his mouth shut, because he _needed_ Alfred, needed his touch even though he couldn't handle the tenderness and reverence behind his caresses —

"You aren't worthless," said Alfred.

This brought Arthur back to the moment. He said incredulously, "But you don't even _know_ me."

Alfred brushed the comment off as if it was irrelevant and placed both of his palms on Arthur's sides, his expression persistent. "Yeah, that's true, but I want to _get_ to know you. Isn't that all that matters? I mean, I don't think anyone is worthless, 'cause I think all of us exist for a reason, and I believe some things in this world are kind of just meant to be, you know? And I think it was already decided that we're supposed to meet and become friends and stuff." His cheeks were rosy when he finished.

"Friends?" Arthur echoed. He thought, _His idealism is so painfully optimistic . . . and ridiculous. Why would he want to be friends with the prostitute that he hired for no-strings-attached sex? Is he really so narrow-minded that he believes that _fate _guided us together and not pure and simple lust?_

He said bitingly, "So, you want to be _friends_. And this theory you mentioned — for all you're concerned, _my_ reason for existing is to be shagged by you. So do you shag all of your _friends_ for money, or am I the exception?" Alfred looked shocked by that, but Arthur didn't give him a chance to speak. "You don't need to outfit yourself with an excuse for hiring me, Alfred. I'm a whore. I exist for a _reason_, as you pointed out, and that reason is to satisfy customers who are willing to pay. You are not the first to become a part of that _reason_ . . . nor will you be the last. Let me say this now: save yourself the trouble and leave your ideals behind when you have sex with me, because here, in these hotel rooms, _they don't apply_."

He'd rendered Alfred truly speechless this time. Taking advantage of this, Arthur edged his hips to the side, causing Alfred's fingers to slide along his pelvis. "Are you done, or would you like to continue?" he asked disinterestedly, glancing up at the clock on the wall. "If you do, you have fifteen minutes."

Alfred shook his head. "I'll make you see differently," he said, ignoring Arthur's inquiry. "I'll prove to you that you're more than what you say you are. I swear I will, Arthur. I promise. Because every person has the right to know what they're here for." Then he leaned down and embraced him, and this was already different, Arthur noted. There was no sexual yearning in Alfred's gesture, only determination and, perhaps, comfort. Once again, Arthur caught his scent, and he noticed something in it that he hadn't before — a salty, sun-baked edge, something that was like a memory of a memory, but he couldn't put a finger on it. It reassured Arthur and repulsed him at the same time, made him want to pull Alfred flush against his body and shove him back all in one motion. But he let it settle over him, because all he could focus on was the feeling of Alfred's arms around him and — had he imagined it? — the light flutter of his lips at Arthur's temple.

If Alfred kept his promise to Arthur, then he would be the first one to have done so, Arthur realized, and thought dryly, _If he doesn't keep it, he won't be the last._ He felt Alfred's hands tighten at his back, and let him hold him for the rest of their session. He didn't know who was doing the comforting now — Alfred, or him.


	8. Eight

**-x-x-x-**

* * *

><p><strong>Eight<strong>

* * *

><p>As a lover — no, that wasn't the right word — as a <em>bedmate<em>, Francis was very different from Alfred. He had twice the skill and half the enthusiasm and none of the actual _engagement_ that had shone through Alfred like a beacon when Arthur slept with him. Francis was a maestro in the sexual arts, smooth and economic, but being fucked by him was a jarring contrast to Alfred's wholehearted, amateur fumbling.

Arthur tried not to let it show.

He was riding astride the Frenchman, his legs stretched out at his sides as he raised himself up and let himself fall in a listless pattern that wasn't doing much good for either of them. Francis seemed too tired to adjust him, too tired to show off his prowess, preferring instead to lie back and watch Arthur do his work with half-lidded eyes that held no expression whatsoever. Arthur avoided his gaze, the recollections of their previous session still freshly imprinted in his mind: Francis's faked mercy and Arthur's own suffering, the white-edged pain he'd had to go through every time the bottom of his spine was touched in the days that followed.

"_Uh_." He'd slipped a little on the way down, grazed his prostate — a short flicker of feeling that was gone in an instant. His cock woke up for a few seconds, then bowed back into obeisance when no other encouragement came.

Arthur didn't try to will it up again. He, too, was worn out, past caring about deriving pleasure from the act; he had neither the motivation nor the energy to come. He was sure Francis harbored no complaints. If anything, the frog would be glad that he was being spared the extra mess to clean up afterward.

Francis shut his eyes and breathed out in relief, and Arthur tried hard not to cringe as he was warmed from the inside out by Francis's thick sperm. Stoically, he dismounted — locking the muscles of his rectum to keep the stickiness from seeping out — and made directly for the bathroom to clean himself up, leaving without so much as a backward glance at the man still lying on his back.

"So, _mon cher_," said Francis casually, just as Arthur was about to close the door, "how is Alfred in bed?"

Arthur's blood ran cold. "Alfred?" he repeated, as if he didn't know who Francis was talking about. But he was certain the other man could hear his heart pounding in his throat, trying to force itself out of his mouth.

"Yes — Alfred. The boy that has begun seeing you recently. Only nineteen, is he not?" Francis's tone was lazy.

"I . . . wouldn't know."

"Oh, has he not told you his age, then?"

Turning and glaring, provoked by the amusement in Francis's tone, Arthur replied frostily, "His age, whether it's nineteen or thirty-five or sixty, is none of my concern. Nor any of yours, I should think." Wildly, he wondered how Francis knew about Alfred and why he cared, why he was bringing up one of Arthur's other clients so nonchalantly.

"Mm." Francis lounged back against the pillows, running a hand through his wavy blond hair, still looking sleepy but now seductively so. _On purpose_, Arthur thought, and gritted his teeth. _Fucking Casanova_.

Unable to take it any longer, he snapped, "What does Alfred have to do with you?"

Francis shrugged. "Nothing. I merely thought to give you a warning before you . . . ah . . . overstep your bounds."

"A warning for what?"

There was a heavy, tense silence. Arthur stared at Francis, trying to read his face, but failing; Francis's countenance was blank as an empty sheet of paper. Arthur repeated his question, his voice full of steel but wavering with doubt inside his head, and Francis looked directly at him and Arthur noticed how chilling, how utterly deadpan his gaze was. Francis said quietly, "Gilbert will not take kindly to your fancies, so I advise you to keep them in check."

A heartbeat. Then two. Then . . . "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about," Arthur hissed, even though he did — even though his thoughts were already betraying him, reminding him of Alfred and his toned body and his rose-tinted views and his promise of friendship, of everything he could have and everything he would lose if Alfred kept coming back to him for more than just sex. . . .

But what he really wanted to ask Francis was, _how?_

_ How did you know?_

And Francis spoke, as if he had heard Arthur's silent accusation. "I am well-versed in the ways of _l'amour_. I know what I am seeing." Matter-of-fact, with a healthy dose of smugness. "You are not quite as lackluster now as you were a few weeks ago, Arthur. Do not think that it has escaped my attention." The bedsprings creaked as Francis turned onto his side, toward Arthur, his eyebrows raised suggestively.

Arthur thought indignantly, _I am _not_ acting like some lovesick fool_, and he was fairly certain he wasn't. But he had no counterargument. Instead, he opted to demand, "How do you know Alfred?"

"I do not. He is a stranger to me." Francis smirked. "You forget that Gilbert is my friend, _mon cher_."

Of course. Arthur should have known that the identities of his clients would be fodder for conversation between Francis and Gilbert. Anger brimmed up inside him, and cold dread tapped fingers down his back, but he gave no voice to it. He closed the bathroom door behind him with a solid _click_.

Through the wood of the door, he heard Francis say, "I cannot promise that Gilbert will not learn of your feelings eventually, but you can rest assured that he will not hear of them from me. It is the least I can do for you, is it not, my little whore?" Arthur knew he really meant, _I will play your game, I will even side with you, if in exchange you will do your utmost to please me._ He couldn't say he'd expected any less or any more of Francis. But he himself, for one, would sooner trust an enemy charged with outright hostility than an ally with questionable motives and unspoken intentions.


	9. Nine

**-x-x-x-**

* * *

><p><strong>Nine<strong>

* * *

><p>The warm water felt good on Arthur's back.<p>

He sighed, inhaled the heavy mist rising around him along with the mild vanilla-orchid of his body wash — Gilbert had picked it, he always picked it, because he wanted Arthur to smell seductive and feminine and like an easy fuck even though Arthur preferred the scent of the ocean over flowers — and tilted his face upward into the spray, closed his eyes, let the water stream over his forehead and cheeks. He wanted — _needed_ — to forget his earlier encounter with Francis.

As the patter of waterdrops livened his skin, he imagined that it was a person touching him, their fingertips dancing all over his body, exploring, cleansing, arousing . . .

_Alfred_, his mind whispered, and his breaths came faster.

The apartment was empty. Gilbert hadn't returned yet. Arthur reasoned hazily that a few extra minutes in the shower wouldn't be grounds for punishment, because there was no one there to catch him. His hand rose and began to inch over his cock.

A loud banging sound echoed from the living room.

Arthur immediately whipped his hand away from himself. _What the hell was that? _He was about to reach for the faucet to turn the water off, with the intention of wrapping a towel around himself and stepping outside to check on the noise, when the bathroom door swung open, rebounding violently off the wall behind it. The curtain was ripped back gracelessly; Arthur barely had time to react before Gilbert stumbled — fully-clothed — into the tub with him, flattening him against the tiles as his balance wavered every which way. The albino was drenched with the bitter, incriminating smell of beer, and his already-reddish eyes were bloodshot. His hands slid up to grope Arthur's ass; he crooned drunkenly, "I'm home, Artie."

Still nude, and suddenly, desperately not wanting to be touched, Arthur wrenched to the side, struggling to free himself from Gilbert's grip. Gilbert let out a low snarl and pinned him harder against the slick wall, as if restraining a thrashing eel. The back of Arthur's skull snapped back against the tiles with a _thunk_ that dashed red and black spots across his vision. His legs crumpled under him. Gilbert relinquished his hold, letting Arthur fall to his knees, and instantly trapped him again with a knee to each shoulder against the wall, purposefully digging into the sockets hard enough to make Arthur gasp. His fingers, made clumsy by the large amount of alcohol he'd obviously downed, went to undo his belt and pants.

Arthur's nose was inches away from Gilbert's crotch. His head pounded from the trauma it'd received, preventing him from thinking coherently. He had neither the strength nor the opportunity to shove Gilbert off before the latter's dick was thrust in his face, the dark head burning as it pressed into his lips. "Open your fuckin' mouth," commanded Gilbert, and unwilling to test out what punishment his disobedience would merit, Arthur complied.

The shower was still on, blinding him with the same torrent of droplets that had caressed him so tenderly before. He was acutely aware of his nakedness; yes, Gilbert had seen him, touched him, fucked him, abused him with both of them in various states of undress, so Arthur wasn't overwhelmingly self-conscious about wearing nothing before _him_ (or any of his clients, for that matter, except Alfred), but he was _wet_. The water running down his body made him feel so much more vulnerable, so much more exposed. He felt too _aware_ of himself, of Gilbert, of the cock being forcefully driven down his throat. The water took away his sight and, to compensate, honed all of his other senses to knife-edge sharpness.

He was jerked forward; Gilbert had a hand anchored in his soaked hair, controlling his movements with merciless yanks that threatened to tear the blond strands right out of Arthur's scalp.

"Watch your _teeth_, you bitch."

Arthur shut his eyes against the tears of pain that were beginning to well up. His gag reflex kicked in for a moment, and he choked, but Gilbert sliced off his air passage by plunging farther into the back of his throat. Unable to breathe, Arthur scrabbled uselessly at Gilbert's thighs, panic mounting with each passing second.

Thankfully, the alcohol seemed to be preventing Gilbert from maintaining an erection; even as he fucked Arthuer's mouth with cruel vigor, he was softening, his foreskin dragging along Arthur's tongue and snagging briefly on his teeth. It was too much, and Gilbert cursed before pulling out. He masked his humiliation with rage — his hand connected with Arthur's cheekbone, knocking him aside. Without so much as a word to Arthur, he lurched back out of the tub and, splattering water everywhere, left the bathroom. The door slammed shut behind him with a loud, jarring _bang_ that echoed for far longer than it should have.

Trembling, Arthur scooted over to the faucet and turned the water off. He wasn't going into shock — Gilbert assaulted him like that too often — but he was more than a little rattled by the encounter. A hand came up to dab gingerly at his bottom lip, at the bloody skin where it'd been split open. He would have to treat that soon, he knew, but . . . not now. He was shaking too badly; he might drop something and break it, and that would give Gilbert another excuse to hurt him. That was the last thing he needed.

He brought his legs up, tucked them under his chin, closed his eyes. The session with Francis floated back to the forefront of his mind. _Francis doesn't care_, he thought emptily. _Gilbert can do whatever he likes to me, and that French bastard won't comment as long as my body is still available for his pleasure. His warning . . . he only gave it because he knew if Gilbert ever found out about what's — what's happening with Alfred, I'll be beaten to within an inch of my life, and then I won't be in any condition to entertain anyone, much less Francis. Of course that was his motive . . . what did I expect?_

And that inevitable stray thought came to him: _Would Alfred care if he knew about Gilbert?_

Arthur considered it. _Yes, he would._ It provided no consolation, however, because he knew Alfred wouldn't be able to do anything about it even if Arthur did tell him. He wouldn't want pity, anyway, and he was sure that was all someone like Alfred, someone who was about a hundred ways better than himself, could offer. Thinking like that made something inside his chest twinge, but Arthur ignored it.

He told himself that Alfred didn't matter, that this wasn't love, and moved to leave the tub.

* * *

><p><strong><strong>**A/N: ****Sorry for the late (and embarrassingly short) update. I wrote the first three-fourths of this chapter about two weeks ago, and I couldn't muster up the will to finish it until (quite literally) now. I've been kind of disheartened lately . . . stupid personal stuff's happening, and writing just doesn't seem to be coming to me as naturally as it used to. It's a real fight trying to get things to turn out the way I want them. Maybe it's just writer's block, but . . . I don't know. I feel like I've lost touch with the flow of this story. I don't want to stop writing it (because that would be unfair to everyone, including Tokyo-Milk and Janigrl . . . not to mention the poor characters, whose fates haven't even been set in stone yet), but I also don't want to keep writing just to have the story turn out to be absolute crap.**

** So updates are going to be a lot slower until I can figure out whether I want to ultimately continue The Cost of Affection, put it on hiatus, or just accept defeat and move on. Thank you so much for understanding, and for sticking with me up 'til now. I couldn't have gotten so far without all of your positive feedback and encouragement. ^^**


	10. Ten

**-x-x-x-**

* * *

><p><strong>Ten<strong>

* * *

><p>They were about ten minutes into the session, and since Alfred had gathered up the courage to undress Arthur completely himself, that was what he was doing, his fingers unsure and unwieldy in a way that was becoming familiar — almost comforting. Arthur waited patiently where he was kneeling between Alfred's legs on the bed as the buttons of his gray shirt were slid free. But when Alfred began to remove the garment, his hands pressed against the bruises in the tender hollows below Arthur's shoulders, and Arthur jerked forward. He let out a sound between a whimper and a sob before he could stop himself.<p>

Alfred immediately pulled back. "Sorry! Did I hurt you?"

_No, you weren't the one who gave me these bruises_, Arthur thought. He shook his head. "No . . . no, it's fine." To distract Alfred — who was looking at Arthur's shoulders with puzzlement and concern, a question on the tip of his tongue, a question that Arthur didn't want him to ask — Arthur took his hands and guided them to his waist, feeling more assured when Alfred caught on, his fingers finding Arthur's zipper and coaxing it down.

Alfred's hands circled around to the small of his back, fingertips dipping just below the waistband of his briefs in a strangely intimate gesture, and Arthur prepared for him to push everything off his hips and leave his lower half naked and available. He wondered if Alfred was going to insist on doing the fingering, too.

But then he felt Alfred's touch leave him and reappear at his navel — and before he could say anything to stop or encourage him, Alfred slipped his hand down the front of his pants.

Out of instinct, Arthur grasped the front of his T-shirt, his whole body tensing as he felt Alfred gently fondle his cock. He'd been somewhat hard, idly aroused instead of consumed with fiery lust, but having Alfred's hand on him _there_ was electric. Alfred hadn't touched him like that during the three or so weeks since he'd begun hiring him; the sudden advance was unexpected, the feelings that accompanied it a shock to the system. Arthur was especially weak there, had always been weak there, powerless to hands and mouths and any sort of direct contact — something that Gilbert and Francis had been quick to discover and exploit since the beginning — and having Alfred . . . _Alfred_ touch him like that caused his mind to unravel, turned him into the helpless, pliable, rutting thing that all perverts wanted in their dreams but could never have in real life. The dream prostitute.

If Arthur wasn't being distracted by the pleasure, he would have laughed at the bitter irony of it all. Alfred, who had been so adamant about proving that Arthur's existence mattered, was the one making him feel as if he wasn't even worth a paid fuck. As if he was nothing but the cheap little slut that everyone else told him he was.

The idea swept through him like a small storm, taking away any enjoyment with it, and left Arthur feeling sick and used. It was a deeply-seated nausea that started somewhere low in his abdomen and crawled up into his stomach, his windpipe, oozed through his bones like cracks across the pavement in the summer. Alfred's scent, the salty, baked, attractive-repulsive hint that he had failed to notice the first time but was becoming stronger to his senses with every session, didn't help. For a moment, he thought he was going to vomit, and quickly moved to bat Alfred's hand aside. But Alfred seemed to sense that something was wrong and let go of him on his own. They sat in awkward silence, Arthur taking deep breaths through his nose to ward off the sickening feeling inside him and Alfred watching him uncertainly.

Finally, Alfred asked timidly, "Are we . . . done for today?"

Arthur raised his head, blind panic suddenly sparking in the back of his mind — what would Gilbert do to him once he found out that Arthur had screwed up a session? A _prepaid_ session, with a customer that he'd already been with a few times? — and opened his mouth to say, "No, no, I'm fine, I just lost my focus for a moment, please continue what you were doing," but the words stuck in his throat. He didn't want Alfred to continue what he was doing. He wanted _him_, of course, he always wanted him, but he didn't want to be his plaything. No matter how much he thought about him, cared about him, he didn't want to be a whore for Alfred. He wanted the . . . the _other_ aspect of their relationship, the one where Alfred had held him close, without the musk of sex between them, and told him he was worth something and treated him like a human being when no one else would.

Was Alfred's "friendship" pity? Or was his pity "friendship"?

_Maybe I do want his pity, after all. I am so pathetic._

"Arthur, you're not okay, are you? You're crying," said Alfred, sounding worried. Arthur blinked in confusion, about to ask him what he was talking about, but when Alfred lifted a hand to touch his face and then drew it away, Arthur saw the tears glistening on his fingertips.

He scrubbed at his eyes and cheeks, embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I don't . . . I don't know why I'm . . ."

"No, it's okay. Sometimes you just gotta let it all out." Alfred reached out to hug him, and Arthur sank into his chest, pressed the side of his face against the warm cotton of his shirt and felt his steady heartbeat against his temple. When Alfred's arms moved to wrap around him, however, he provoked the bruises again, and Arthur flinched. Alfred looked down at him, brow knit together. "Arthur? . . . What is it? Are you hurt somewhere?"

Arthur couldn't answer him, and he didn't have a chance to act before Alfred eased him up and nudged his shirt off to expose the purple-black discoloring near his shoulders.

The breath that Alfred sucked in was loud in the small room. "How did that happen?" His voice was different. Harder, shocked, almost _angry_. Arthur turned his head away, huddled against the headboard.

"That's none of your business." The bruises were from when Gilbert had accosted him in the shower — almost a week and a half ago. That was the last time he had seen Alfred, the same day Francis had propositioned him. Gilbert had rammed him against the wall with his knees, Arthur dimly recalled, and the bruises had appeared a day or two later, welling up under his skin like a disease. His arms had been extremely sore since then. The discomfort faded a bit each day, but the ugly coloring had yet to disappear. And he still couldn't quite rotate his arms in a full circle without going weak at the knees from pain.

Alfred looked at him, his eyes disconcertingly bright — the blue in them pale, turned up to a frequency that made something in Arthur quake. "I don't care! That — those —" He gestured furiously at the bruises, dark in the shadows of Arthur's chest. "Who _did_ that to you?"

"I told you, it's _none of your business_," Arthur shot back, tugging his shirt back on and doing up the buttons, hiding the damage. He clutched at the quilt under him after he was done, fisting it in his hands, knuckles white. He was shaking like the air was cold, even though it wasn't. He snapped, as an afterthought, "What makes you think it was a person? I could've just fallen."

"But those aren't not _normal_! You can't get those from — from bumping into something or falling down the stairs or whatever!" Alfred persisted, then cut across Arthur's next retort with a question of his own. "Was it the same person who gave you those scars?"

A barrier somewhere inside Arthur slammed down, and suddenly the foot and a half of space separating them felt like an entire ocean. He couldn't say anything about Gilbert. Not to Alfred. Not to anybody._ I should've known his self-righteousness . . . his assumptions . . . would carry over into other things._

He said coldly, "I don't know what you mean."

"Like hell you don't!" The outburst startled them both, and Alfred flushed, but he didn't apologize even when Arthur matched his gaze. They stared at each other for several very long seconds.

Stiffly, Arthur slid to the edge of the bed and stood up. "I'd presumed," he said curtly, "that you'd hired me today for sex, not to hurl wild, baseless accusations concerning things you know nothing about. I suppose I was mistaken." Noticing that his pants were still undone, he began to zip them.

"Well, you're obviously not in any shape to do it, are you?" There was no vehemence behind Alfred's words, only distress. Distress on Arthur's behalf. "I'll — I'll gladly sleep with you . . . like I did before . . . but only when you're not hurt. It's not because I don't want it, honest!"

And there was the opening that Arthur had been waiting for, without realizing he'd been waiting for it. Whirling around, hardly able to control what was coming out of his mouth, he bit out, "That's what I don't understand. Why do you waste your time and your money on me? If you're horny, couldn't you just go out and pick up any woman — or man — you wanted? Why do you keep coming back for more?"

That brought Alfred, who had been about to keep going, to a dead stop. "What?"

"You're . . . you're . . ." Arthur struggled to find the right words, even though they were all wrong now no matter how he arranged them. "You're handsome, and you're perfect, and you have a good head on your shoulders despite all the idealistic nonsense you spout." Oh God, now his face was burning. Why couldn't he shut up before he humiliated himself further? "You're still young. Only nineteen, correct? You shouldn't be throwing away your spare time fucking with me in hotel rooms and promising to be my friend. You should . . . I don't know, go properly attend college, find a partner, a lover, _anyone_, as long as it's someone else, because I'm — I'm a hopeless case. I'm just a prostitute. You're too good for me."

There. He'd said it. He'd said what he'd wanted to say, what he'd been thinking since the first time he'd laid eyes on Alfred and his beautiful face and his beautiful body and realized that Alfred had hired _him_. The past three weeks had felt like an eternity when those thoughts were bottled up inside him, and now that they were free, Arthur could finally breathe. Gilbert could have his hide, his spleen, his ass, whatever he wanted, for losing Alfred as a client; Arthur just couldn't have gone on keeping up the pretense that this was just a normal relationship between a prostitute and a customer. _Alfred had ruined it first_, he thought in his own defense, _by trying to make me a promise that he could never fulfill._

For some reason, that made him feel no better.

Alfred swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. He opened his mouth, but whatever he wanted to say refused to come out; he worked his jaw soundlessly for several moments, then shut it and averted his gaze toward the wall.

He said finally, "I _am_ going to college. And I have a girlfriend."

It felt like someone had poured ice water down Arthur's spine. Grabbed him by the hair, shoved him under the cold spray, let it pepper and tear through his skin into his chest and rip out something that he didn't know was there.

"You're joking."

"I'm not." Alfred's voice was tight.

"You have a . . . you've been . . . _cheating_ on your . . . just to be with . . ."

"Look, I don't feel great about that either, okay?" said Alfred, his head swiveling back to meet Arthur's eyes. "She's an amazing girl, one of the best people I've ever met, and she . . . she means a lot to me —"

Arthur couldn't even find it in himself to twist Alfred's words around and throw them back at him. He was going to be sick — for real this time. And he didn't even fully understand why. He mumbled, trying to tamp down the rising nausea, "You hired me because you just wanted a quick lay . . . because you didn't want to force her to do anything she didn't want to do or wasn't ready for?"

"Well." Alfred hesitated. "That's a part of it, but —"

"I believe I'm finished here." Arthur grabbed his jacket from where he'd tossed it across the back of a chair and threw it on. His limbs protested his every move, his joints feeling as if they'd been cemented in place, but he pressed his feet into his shoes anyway. "I apologize for cutting our session short, but it doesn't seem we'll get anywhere today," he said calmly. _Even though it feels like we're now leagues apart and you have a goddamned girlfriend that you forgot to mention before you fooled me into thinking I could love you._ "I'll talk to Gilbert about giving you a refund. Now, if you'll excuse me." He headed for the door. He had to leave before his composed mask cracked.

"No, Arthur, wait —"

Stopping just before he stepped out, Arthur said through his teeth, "If you really want sex, you should go back to your girlfriend and discuss it with her. Instead of toying with me." _And giving me false hope, just to crush it underfoot like it's nothing._ It occurred to him shortly that he had absolutely no right to act the way he was acting. He was, first and foremost, a prostitute, and it wasn't like he'd never entertained a married or otherwise engaged person before. Morals held no sway over him. Why was he making such a big deal out of it now?

And who was he to think that he had any sort of hold on Alfred? To assume that Alfred had any sort of obligation to _him_?

_He promised._

Arthur slammed the door on his exit to shut out the clamor in his head. He walked out of the inn at a relentless pace, ignoring everybody and everything he passed, and tried to convince himself that he shouldn't be so worked up over Alfred, that they had never meant anything in the first place, that they _shouldn't_ have meant anything — and that if they had, it was nothing now.

_I was just a "friend." And now I'm not even that. _And he remembered the time that Alfred had made his promise, and his own unspoken words. _If he'd kept it, he would've been the first to do so. If he didn't, he wouldn't be the last._

Haunted by the fact that he'd been right all along, he ducked his head and let the tears fall.

_It should never have happened._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Apparently, after I've been in a slump for a while, I get unhappy enough to begin writing again. Maybe if it continues, it'll have a reverse effect and I'll start churning out more chapters?**

** Thank you for the comments last chapter. They really made me feel better. :)**

** (An advance warning: the next chapter will contain S+M.)**


	11. Eleven

**-x-x-x-**

* * *

><p><strong>Eleven<strong>

* * *

><p>He didn't say anything to Gilbert.<p>

And the riding crop didn't hurt as much as it used to.

As the force behind the lashes caused him to twist back and forth on his "leash," Arthur found himself wondering if Gilbert had drilled the hook far enough into the ceiling. It was wobbling slightly with each movement of his body, jostled by the thick leather strap that was fastened to the back of the collar around his neck with a metal clasp. His arms had been pulled up over his head, wrists threaded through the twin loops attached to the leather and buckled tightly in place. His shoulders screamed at him, his whole upper body ached brutally, but there was nothing Arthur could do except wait it out.

He was entirely nude. The contraption of leather and metal fastenings that Gilbert had fitted onto him rubbed his bare skin raw, while the ball gag pinched ceaselessly at the corners of his mouth. There was one large band around his waist; it connected to the collar in the back in a series of elaborate chains that clinked when Arthur shifted. The front was rigged with a lattice of straps and links that only Gilbert could make sense of — it appeared as nothing more than a tangled mess to the inexperienced eye. However, the ensemble was meant to be more decorative than protective. It did nothing to shield Arthur from the riding crop, and the exposed parts of his body were already criss-crossed with blunt red marks.

If the hook fell out . . . Arthur didn't want to think about what Gilbert would do to him.

A particularly hard lash whistled through the air, the strength of it when it landed snapping his head backward. His legs were bent clumsily under his body, the feeling beginning to leave them from lack of circulation; Arthur managed to twitch them out, spread them to his sides, the bedsheets cold against his skin as he pressed his knees down into the bed to anchor himself.

He winced as a wave of heat — not the first — crashed through him. Gilbert had given him a dose of the lust-inducing drug right before he'd outfitted him properly, and it was in full effect by now, dulling all sensations except the burn in his groin — which was intensified by the cock ring that Gilbert had sadistically clipped on him. The ring was joined to the collar with yet another adjustable leash. This the albino tugged when he felt Arthur wasn't focusing, gripping the length of leather and yanking with no small amount of force, grinning madly at the cry that contorted Arthur's mouth around the gag as both the collar and the cock ring tightened another notch.

Arthur hated it when he did that. It put even more pressure on what were already sensitive areas, and he knew that though the longest he could safely wear the cock ring was about half an hour, Gilbert had been known to push the limit, extending it to forty minutes or even fifty — not quite long enough to cause priapism or any other lasting damage, but enough for Arthur's lower regions to start feeling extremely uncomfortable. Thankfully Gilbert had chosen not to bring out the corset-and-garter part of the outfit today; Arthur wasn't sure if he would be able to handle having his ribs crushed at the same time his dick was being jerked about like a dog muzzled by a cruel owner.

Gilbert himself was still mostly dressed, his shirt the only missing item of clothing. It was to maintain the atmosphere that the recipient of his lashes was nothing more than a tool, a toy, a slave reared to please his master, Arthur supposed, but his thoughts were sidetracked when Gilbert abruptly stopped trying to flay the skin from his body and instead prodded the tip of his erection with the riding crop.

"_Mmh_!" Arthur gasped, the sphere in his mouth obstructing his tongue.

Gilbert smirked. "What? Does it hurt?" he asked, sing-song, and ground the riding crop down harder, smearing pre-cum over the swollen head. Arthur's legs spasmed. "I can't understand ya, kiddo, if ya don't speak up."

_Don't call me that. You're only two years older._ How long had it been since Gilbert had put the cock ring on him? Twenty minutes? Twenty-five? It was already beginning to hurt, which was a bad sign. But Gilbert seemed to be in a reasonably good mood — perhaps he would take mercy on Arthur, just this once, and free him before things veered too close to the edge.

As if sensing Arthur's thoughts, Gilbert brought the riding crop up to Arthur's face, tapped Arthur's cheek with it. Arthur cringed as he felt his own fluids coating his skin.

"You're goddamn lucky I'm feelin' fuckin' awesome today." Another tap. Arthur tried not to flinch away from it; even though he knew Gilbert would never leave long-lasting marks on his face no matter how angry or drunk he was (scars on his body could be hidden from prying eyes by clothes, but there was nothing he could do to cover up his face short of pulling a paper bag over his head, and that wasn't an option), his body couldn't shut out the instinct to _get away_. "Guess what? You're gonna have three more new customers in a few days. Three more sources of income. How's that sound? Fuckin' amazin', right?"

Arthur made a sound of agreement, knowing it was what Gilbert wanted. His lips were going numb from the gag. _At least he won't be as infuriated when he finds out that Alfred's quit_, he thought, a spike of ice piercing his stomach just from thinking the name. _If only I hadn't — no. I can't think like that. He was only a client. It wasn't . . . it wasn't my fault._

"Betcha wanna know who they are, huh?" Gilbert was obviously enjoying his little spiel.

Arthur nodded. For the sake of playing along, and for the sake of forgetting Alfred.

Gilbert trailed the riding crop down Arthur's front, traced loops around his nipples, twirled it inside his navel with airy flicks of his wrist. "The first guy's one of my old buddies from high school. A whip-cracker, that one, big and terrifyin' and shit, but I know he'll take good care of ya. Told me he likes 'em tight, and says he won't turn down a screamer, either. You'll scream for him, won't ya? We'll have to find a place that soundproofs its walls for the two of ya to meet." He smiled knowingly, lips sliding back to reveal his canines. "Second one . . . tiny li'l' thing, Asian, quiet and polite as all hell. 'Nother one of those college kids; they just can't get enough of ya, eh? Don't know what the squirt's gonna want, but it'll probably be pretty damn kinky — he had that look in his eyes. And the last guy . . . a charmer. Spiky hair, big grin. Acts kinda like the Jones kid, now that I think 'bout it."

A replacement for Alfred. Arthur wasn't sure whether that was a good or a bad thing. Thinking about it made him feel hollow, and he quickly closed his eyes, tried to erase the entire matter from his brain.

Suddenly, the riding crop was under his throat, digging in, pushing his chin up. "Oh, you wanna come, Artie? Looks like it hurts." There was absolutely no sympathy in Gilbert's voice. Only glee.

Banishing his feelings, Arthur murmured an affirmation. _Forget._

"Heh. Why don't'cha beg and show me how much of a slut ya are, then?"

The ball gag was unbuckled and taken out of Arthur's mouth.

He knew what Gilbert wanted him to say. "Please . . . please take it off . . . it hurts . . . it hurts so much . . . please let me come . . ." Breathy, desperate, submissive. Gilbert tossed the riding crop aside, eyes glinting with satisfaction — but when he took hold of the leash attached to the cock ring, Arthur knew it wasn't going to be over that easily.

He was jerked around by the leash to face the wall; Gilbert's hand was in his hair, fisting it, roughly tugging his head back at an awkward angle to bare his throat and hissing in his ear, "Tell me you want me to fuck you."

"Please," Arthur breathed. "Please fuck me."

"Whore."

The sound of a zipper being undone, the friction of dry fingers being shoved into him. Gilbert didn't bother with lubrication if there wasn't any immediately on hand, and though the initial penetration was extremely painful, Arthur could bear it. The first handful of times Gilbert had taken him dry, he'd cracked, bled, almost needed stitches. Now the ring of his ass was lined with flexible scar tissue, and Arthur had become used to pain. And he wasn't completely without aid — the natural moisture of his insides was nowhere near an actual substitute for proper lube, but since it prevented Gilbert from tearing him apart from the inside out, it was better than nothing.

But the worst part — ah, there it was — was when Gilbert began moving in him. Those first few thrusts sent shocks through his body, zipped down the muscles in his legs, stretched his vocal cords taut. They fucking _hurt_. Arthur jammed his forehead against the headboard, flattening it into the wood, and tried not to think about the nerves that were on fire in his backside. He tensed his arms as they hung over his head, still tied, and purposely aggravated his injured shoulders to have another, lesser pain to focus on.

Distracted, he almost didn't feel the cock ring being removed. Then Gilbert's hand was on him, his grip harsh and twisting like it always was, reeling Arthur back in with brutal efficiency. The stimulation burrowed deep into Arthur's groin, and he panted into his forearm, rocked with Gilbert as he was fucked. _Forget. Forget. Forget_, he thought vaguely, though the pain had submerged his mind. He couldn't remember what it was he was trying to forget anymore. Something about . . . about . . .

"Fuck," Gilbert snarled. His hand smacked one of Arthur's asscheeks, and Arthur was quick to twist his surprised yelp into a moan. "Squeeze me, you bitch — harder — mm, shit — oh fuck, yeah, just like that!" He clenched his fingers harder around Arthur's cock. A keen escaped Arthur's mouth.

_Oh, God, do I get off on pain after all?_ The question flickered once, then disappeared as he came, his sperm spurting onto the sheets, trickling over and between Gilbert's knuckles.

Gilbert grabbed him by the back of a knee and heaved it over his shoulder, forcing Arthur to balance on one leg. A second before he climaxed, he sank his teeth into Arthur's calf, gnawed through the skin as he shuddered to a standstill. Arthur barely registered the sharp sting; the endorphins from his orgasm were still holding him in thrall, and his only reaction was a hitch in his breathing. When Gilbert let him go, he collapsed bonelessly onto the bed, body limp, wrists still suspended in the air.

Then he was freed entirely. Arthur did his best to hold himself up as Gilbert wrangled the complicated getup off him and undid the leather bindings, feeling more naked now that there was nothing on him at all, and allowed himself to fall back down as soon as Gilbert left the room to put everything away. He ignored the dampness of the sheets and the ache of the new marks that had been made on him with the riding crop. All he wanted now was sleep.

He expected to be kicked out by Gilbert when he came back, expelled to his own room and bed, but Gilbert's mood still appeared to be running high. There was warmth at his back; then a hand was slipping between his thighs, grazing his perineum. Pinching the tender skin. Arthur was too tired to fidget, and let Gilbert do what he wanted. Not that he had much of a choice, anyway.

Lips on his side — then Gilbert bit him again. Arthur had learned early on that Gilbert didn't kiss. Instead, he showed his "affection" with bites: some with enough force to break through skin and blood vessels, while others left nothing more than a temporary hickey.

"You've been good," said Gilbert, his voice raspy, slightly worn out, but still dangerous. His touch moved to Arthur's balls. He rolled them, squeezed, then pulled — not hard enough to hurt, but Arthur pressed his legs together all the same, wanting him to stop. "Y'know, I've been thinkin' . . . I've had ya for pretty damn long time now. It's 'bout time I marked you as mine."

Arthur's eyes flew open. _What, are all of these scars not enough for you?_ he wondered wearily.

"Hm . . . yeah, we'll drop by Liz's place tomorrow. Do ya want a piercing or a tattoo, Artie? She does both." It wasn't really a question. Arthur knew Gilbert was going to choose for him either way.

The hand wandered up to his chest, grasped a nipple between two fingernails. "How 'bout a stud here?" whispered Gilbert, his breath uncomfortably warm against Arthur's ear. "Or" — a thumb on his soft dick, pulling back the foreskin — "here? Start ya off with a Prince Albert, then get ya a cute li'l' magic cross, heh? It's more advanced and shit and it'll hurt like a bitch, but I know ya like pain. It'll look good on a whore."

Arthur knew Gilbert used to have a genital piercing — an apadravya — but had to have it removed due to complications. He imagined the piercing needle at the tip of his own cock, shining and sharp, poised to stab through — and decided resolutely that he didn't want a piece of metal in his genitals. Or anywhere near his genitals.

Gilbert was already moving on. "Or we could get ya a tattoo . . ." His fingertips danced all over Arthur's shoulders, chest, abdomen, skipped around the small of Arthur's back, rested on his hip. "Something fuckin' badass. Something that'll make people know you're mine, like —" He broke off in a yawn, seeming to lose his train of thought. "Ah, what the hell. We'll talk 'bout this later . . . gonna crash for a bit first."

Relaxing, Arthur closed his eyes. Gilbert wouldn't harm him in his sleep.

"Hey, Artie, one more thing." Gilbert's nails dug into his thighs to get his attention. "Ya know yesterday? After ya came back from your session with Jones?"

Arthur stiffened. Waited.

"He called me . . . what, less than half an hour later? Asked if ya've got a free slot on Wednesday for an all-nighter." Gilbert cackled. "Sure got him whipped, eh? What've ya been doin' for him, Artie?" His inquiry was deceptively lighthearted; there was a definite edge to it, a hidden layer. A suspicion.

"Nothing more than the usual," said Arthur, keeping his voice neutral. His insides had gone cold. Wednesday was the day after tomorrow. _So soon? What does he want? He has a girlfriend!_

For a moment, he thought Gilbert wouldn't believe him — but fortunately, his answer was accepted without further questioning. Gilbert said lazily, "Well, whatever, he can have ya all he wants as long as he pays up." Another yawn. "I'm gonna be busy on Wednesday — got some business to take care of. You're gonna have to find another ride to Sundale." And that was that. Two minutes later, Gilbert was snoring.

Arthur stayed as he was, rigid as a board, staring at nothing. Memories — and the emotions that went with them — washed through him. What did it mean? Why was Alfred coming back after the . . . incident that had occurred between them? What was his motivation?

As he continued to lay there, fully awake, finding a ride to Sundale was the last concern on Arthur's mind.


	12. Twelve

**-x-x-x-**

* * *

><p><strong>Twelve<strong>

* * *

><p>"Yo, Liz!" Gilbert bellowed the moment they stepped into the tattoo parlor, the glass door swinging shut behind them. "Where are ya, baby? Your man's here!"<p>

There was a clatter in the back room, and a young woman emerged. Her long, light brown hair had been piled artfully on top of her head, and she wore dark jeans that had been ripped at the thigh and knee with a halter top and skater shoes. "You wish," she said, rolling her eyes. "Arrogant bastard." Her face lit up when she saw Arthur. "Arthur! I haven't seen you in a while! How are you?" She came over to give him a fond hug, which he returned with something close to relief. Her scent — bubble gum and daisies — was an instant mood-lifter.

"I'm doing well. You?" Arthur liked Elizaveta; she was straightforward, and, at times, almost unnervingly perceptive. She was rather heavy-handed with Gilbert, but that was only because they'd been high school sweethearts and she'd been busy fending him off with a frying pan ever since. Arthur wasn't sure whether she knew he was a prostitute, or had any inkling of Gilbert's sadistic tendencies and what he liked to do to Arthur in the privacy of his bedroom . . . but if she _did_ know, she didn't let it on, and Arthur was oddly glad for it.

Elizaveta laughed, the tiny diamond stud in her nose glittering. "Same old, same old. Like usual." She turned her attention back to Gilbert, pursing her lips in disapproval. Gilbert flashed a lazy grin back. "So . . . what did you guys drop in for? A chat? You better not be here to waste my time again, Beilschmidt. I've got a full schedule today."

"Wouldn't dream of it," said Gilbert with mock sincerity. Elizaveta scowled at him. "Aw, baby, c'mon, humor me a li'l', won't ya? I know ya missed me and my awesomeness."

Leaning against the counter, Elizaveta snorted. "Oh, believe me, these past few months have been hectic enough without you coming around and screwing things up." Glancing at the chrome-plated clock hanging over the door, she added, "I've got my first appointment at eight-thirty. We're clearing up whatever business you have with me before then, got it?" She raised an eyebrow at Gilbert's innocent face, and crossed her arms. "Yeah . . . nice try. I know you're not here just to annoy the hell out of me, so out with it."

"Women. Always spoilin' my fun," Gilbert muttered.

"You know it." Elizaveta winked at Arthur, who managed to quirk a small smile back.

After the bantering finally died down, Gilbert snagged a catalog of piercings from the counter and slouched down in one of the chairs to flip through it. Arthur skimmed the wall, where posters of the more popular tattoos had been hung up, and tried to imagine himself with one of those images inked into his skin. He knew Gilbert was going to pick for him, but . . . what would he get if he himself had the choice? _Not anything with words or names . . . not flowers . . . and definitely not that naked girl . . ._

Then his eyes landed on a design at the far end of the row of posters — and in an instant, he knew it was the one he wanted. Sleek, majestic, with more than a touch of wildness . . . it was perfect. Just looking at it made Arthur feel as if it was already a part of him, even though it was only a glossy picture laminated on the wall and nowhere near his skin. He'd never given tattoos much thought before, but now . . . the knowledge that he was actually going to go through with it — and that Gilbert would never let him get something of his own volition — only intensified the yearning. Tearing his gaze away, Arthur rolled the hem of his shirt in his hands, kneaded the fabric in an attempt to distract himself, but his attention kept sliding inadvertently back to the poster like metal drawn to a magnet.

Elizaveta's voice broke through his daze. "Arthur, have you decided whether you want a tattoo or a piercing yet?" she asked, opening and closing drawers as she set up one of the stations.

"He's definitely gettin' a piercing." Gilbert thumbed aside a page of the catalog. "Hey, Liz, ya do frenums anymore?"

"Not for you, no," Elizaveta retorted.

"Heh. I know ya want your hands on my dick, baby —"

"Yeah, when I get to jab a needle through it."

"— but it's Artie who's gettin' it, not me."

Arthur's eyes met Elizaveta's, an unspoken conversation unraveling between them. After a moment, Elizaveta turned to Gilbert and said nonchalantly, "You know, I don't think that's a good idea. I know some of the money I make comes from the idiots who like to have pieces of metal stuck through their penises, and really, I'm not complaining, but something tells me that I — _we_ — shouldn't lump Arthur in with that particular group. Pick something else, Beilschmidt, and let's get this show down the road. Better yet, why don't you ask Arthur what he wants?"

Gilbert's reddish eyes narrowed in Arthur's direction, and for a second, Arthur felt a chill run down his back, but the unpleasant feeling was gone before he could make any sense of it. When Gilbert spoke again, his tone was falsely blithe.

"'Kay, then. Artie, what do ya wanna get?"

Arthur tried to think of what Gilbert would want him to choose, what a good substitute for a dick piercing would be. He began to think, out of habit, _What would Alfred pick? Would he ever get a piercing? What would he think would look good on me? _But he caught himself just in time and forcefully pushed the questions from his head, sharpened his concentration to focus exclusively on the matter at hand (and not on a certain American college student with blue eyes and a winning smile and gentle fingers and a girlfriend). As he ran through his options, avoiding looking at the poster that had commanded his interest earlier, he reached up and unconsciously rubbed at his ear. Elizaveta watched him, then raised her eyebrows.

"Hey, why not a few cartilage piercings up on your ear?" she suggested. "They're easier to hide from people if you don't feel like showing them off, and it'll take me less than a minute to prep the tools."

Grateful that she had saved him yet again, Arthur nodded.

Gilbert stood up and sneered, "Seriously, kiddo? Are ya tryin' to look gay —" A chirpy ringtone cut him off, and his pocket began to vibrate. He pulled out his phone, glanced at the caller ID, and snapped, "Important call. Be right back." With that, he stalked outside, holding the door open long enough to let a burst of cold air in before shutting it.

Elizaveta waited until he was out of earshot, then sighed. "He's such a douchebag sometimes, isn't he?" she said to Arthur. Arthur raised his shoulder in a half-shrug. "Yeah. I'm sorry about that. . . . Do you mind coming with me for a sec? I need you to fill out a few forms."

She snatched a packet of papers and a pen from behind the counter and walked into the back room. Arthur followed, wondering why she was taking him in there when all he needed was a hard surface to write on — was there something else that she had to get?

Once they were in the cramped storage space, Elizaveta flicked the lights on and laid the forms and pen on the small, worn table that was crammed up against the wall. "You can skip showing me ID — I know you're old enough. Just put down your signature and date of birth in every place that asks for it." She begun rummaging through the boxes on a shelf.

Arthur picked up the pen, looked down at the top of the paper . . . and stopped. "Wait. This is a consent form for a tattoo."

"Yeah, I know." Elizaveta lifted something out. "The ones for the piercings are at the bottom of the stack."

Arthur began to flip the page over.

"No. Sign the top ones first."

_What?_ "Why? I'm . . . just getting piercings. Aren't I?"

She finally looked at him, the array of gold and silver studs glittering on the tray in her hands. "Arthur, I saw you looking at the poster on the wall." Arthur opened his mouth, but she wouldn't let him speak. "No, don't try to deny it. I know Gilbert's not going to let you get what you _really_ want — at least, not while he's here. You two aren't real boyfriends, are you? Yeah, I didn't think you were. I'm not going to ask what your relationship is, exactly, since that's none of my business, but . . . I don't like the way he's treating you. So I'm going to have you sign off for that tattoo right now, before he comes back, because you're entitled to what you want and he has no right to stop you from getting it."

"But I —"

"And if you're worried about money, don't be. The payment's on me. Just drop in whenever Gilbert's not around and I'll do the tattoo for you in private. Judging from that design you were looking at earlier, it should take about four hours, tops, to do the outline and shading. We can take it in half-hour intervals . . . because I won't lie, the first tattoo always hurts. It's not too bad once you get used to it, but it's not a good idea to push yourself even if you think you can handle it."

Arthur clutched the pen. His mind was spinning, drawing up predictions, fears, _possibilities_. "If he finds out . . ."

Elizaveta seemed to understand, but it didn't appear to faze her in the slightest. She offered him a bold, genuine smile. "Well, since he doesn't like it, he doesn't have to know. It'll just be between you and me."

_Until the next time he sees me nude; then he'll turn me inside out._ But at the moment, Arthur wasn't deterred either, not even when he thought of the punishment Gilbert would surely inflict on him. He recalled the riding crop, the chains, the aphrodisiac. The pain. Then the image of that tattoo — that fierce, unstoppable beauty — imprinted on his skin filled his head, and he decided that even though he would have to pay the cost with his body and his health, it would all be worth it.

"All right," he said, and signed the papers.

When they stepped back out into the front of the shop, Gilbert was still on his phone, his back to the storefront window, his breath misting out in a white cloud around him. Arthur breathed a little more easily, and watched as Elizaveta carefully stowed the completed tattoo forms in a folder that she locked into a cabinet under the counter. It would be a secret, he mused, and cradled the warm little thought close to himself, biting back a smile. He allowed his eyes to drift to the poster one last time.

As he walked out of the shop with an irate Gilbert fifteen minutes later, with three tiny, silver spheres gleaming along the shell of his ear, he thought, _It's my secret_, and realized that, for the first time, he had exerted control over his own life. It was a strange, ethereal feeling, like a bubble that could pop if he wasn't gentle enough, but he wouldn't say that he disliked it. In fact, it would probably be hard to let go of in the future, when the time came . . . and Arthur tried not to think about the consequences that would inevitably follow.


	13. Thirteen

**-x-x-x-**

* * *

><p><strong>Thirteen<strong>

* * *

><p>The ride back to the apartment was silent. Gilbert glared straight ahead through the windshield, skin drawn tight over his knuckles as he gripped the steering wheel, his anger almost tangible in the limited space of the car. Arthur wisely kept his mouth shut. His ear throbbed, but not badly; just a dull ache that hovered in the background like an unobtrusive shadow. He folded his hands over the plastic pack of ear-care supplies that Elizaveta had given him, and wondered what the phone call had been about, if it had anything to do with him — but after years of experience, he knew better than to ask. Gilbert would tell him when he felt like it.<p>

He didn't have long to wait. Gilbert floored the accelerator through a red light and snapped, "Somethin' came up with Ivan . . . he called and said he's gotta reschedule. I've moved him to Thursday mornin'. If ya try to pull some serious shit with Jones durin' that all-nighter and end up gettin' no sleep, I'll rip your hide off. I don't give a shit if that kid's hornier than a dog — hold him off after a few rounds and tell him that ya wanna sleep, then blow him in the mornin' or somethin' to make up for it. We're not losin' Ivan as a customer just 'cause you're so tired ya fucked up. Got it, kiddo?"

Arthur nodded, trying to keep his expression blank and his posture demure. The knowledge of his secret — of the tattoo that Elizaveta was going to do for him — still thrilled in his veins; he was careful to keep it in check, to keep his face neutral, lest Gilbert realized something was up. Even Gilbert's threat did little to kill the surprisingly light feeling in his chest.

He didn't let himself think about Alfred.

Gilbert was speaking again, this time more calmly. "Tonight's gonna be the Honda kid. Eight to nine-thirty, Raddington Hotel. He's clean — I'll leave the test results on the coffee table before I go. I'm gonna be out 'til evenin', but I'll be back in time to drop ya off, so be ready."

They pulled up into a parking space in the lot beside the apartment building, and after they'd gotten out and Gilbert had locked the car, they headed upstairs. Arthur went into the bathroom to look at his new piercings in the mirror, tilting his head to the side and brushing a few locks out of the way. He had to admit that he rather liked how they'd turned out; the studs complemented the structure of his ear, the clean, shiny silver nestling in the shadows of his pale hair like partly-hidden treasure and twinkling when it caught the light. The defined contours of his face looked more deliberate, his slightly babyish cheeks less round. His thinness now seemed more like a rebellion than deprivation.

When he came back out, feeling unusually good about himself, he realized a solid ten minutes had gone by. Laid out on the coffee table were the blood test results, and the apartment felt distinctly empty — apparently, Gilbert had left without Arthur even noticing.

Arthur stood in the doorway to the living room for a moment, then gave a short sigh. He was relieved, of course, relieved that Gilbert was going to be gone for the day — like he so often was — but his chest felt curiously hollow. Almost like he didn't know what to do with himself now that there was nobody there to direct him, no client to entertain. He considered his options. Maybe he could take a walk around the city again to kill time, but it was really getting too cold for that; winter seemed to be coming in that year with a certain vengeance. He didn't want to trudge his way through the frozen streets without a destination in mind, and he honestly didn't have anywhere to go.

His wandering thoughts drifted back and forth for a bit, then finally settled back on his current state.

It was a strange feeling, the emptiness, he mused. Not unfamiliar and not something he wanted to dwell on, but it was there, persistent, reminding him of its presence like an unwelcome house guest that was determined not to be ignored. Was it loneliness? Self-pity? Dissatisfaction? As he let himself lean into the door frame, white painted wood cool and slick against his cheek, Arthur stared unseeingly at the opposite wall — and it struck him that nothing was ever going to become of his life.

Sure, he would continue to live under Gilbert's "care" for a long time, would probably keep being a prostitute until he was too old to be appealing anymore (not that he was all that appealing in the first place). He would carry on as he was now until he was in his . . . late forties? Late thirties? Even earlier? He had no idea, but that wasn't his main concern.

He wondered what would happen after he retired from the business and became just another a normal, nondescript, used person living in a gray city in New England.

What would Gilbert do with him?

_Most likely kick me out_, Arthur thought matter-of-factly. _I wouldn't be earning him any money, so he wouldn't have any reason to keep me around anymore. And that was our contract, wasn't it? He would provide me with a place to live if I became a whore for him._

He thought back to the day they'd first met, and dug his nails into his elbows. Closed his eyes. _It's not his fault. It's nobody's fault but my own. This position, this life, this ruined body . . . I've brought all of this upon myself. I was a complete wreck, and he merely fucked me and gave me what I was stupid enough to think was affection, then extended his hand to me afterward and offered me a way out of my hopeless misery. No, I hadn't known that he was a sadist, that he would hurt me, but I _had _known what I was getting into when I agreed to become a prostitute, hadn't I? It's my fault for going along with it in spite of that knowledge. _Looking back, it really was no wonder that he was where he was in life. He had begun it, had maintained it, and now there was no way to end it.

And a voice inside his head added slyly, _And it's the same with Alfred, isn't it? If you hadn't been such a pussy, if you hadn't let him into your soft pink heart like you let him into your ass, you wouldn't have been deluded into thinking that he was anything beyond a client._

Arthur immediately whirled, made for the hall closet, wrenched the door open. He didn't want to think about Alfred.

_You're so pathetic._

He grabbed the first bag he found, fumbled through it.

_ You're just running away again, aren't you?_

His hands shook as he continued his search. After he'd found what he was looking for, he went into the bathroom and rummaged around under the sink for the enema supplies. He administered one to himself, biting into the thin skin on the back of his hand in an effort to make the voice in his head _shut up_.

_You've been like this since you were little. You were always a coward._

He cleaned up. Stumbled into his room. Fell onto the bed. Tore his pants off and spread his legs.

_ You think sex and pain can make you forget everything you don't want to remember, don't you?_

Dipping his hand in lube from a bottle he kept in the little nightstand crammed alongside his bed, Arthur reached down under himself and plunged two fingers inside, up to the third knuckles. He winced, thighs spasming, but didn't stop.

_ Just like back then, back when you were in boarding school, hmm? Do you remember that? Or are you trying to deny it ever happened, even when it's staring you in the face every day? Even though it's the reason you were in the streets when Gilbert found you?_

He forced himself to relax. The ring of muscle finally loosened, the pressure on his fingers letting up slightly. He didn't bother probing for his prostate — he knew he couldn't reach it from that angle — and focused instead on widening the opening as much as he could.

_Do you know why it happened? It was because you were weak. Useless. Vulnerable. Every school has its bullies, and you were an obvious target for them. You stood out. It was your own misfortune that those bullies were worse than the rest, that they were willing to take it far past the normal taunting and shoving._

Extracting his fingers, Arthur poured out more lube and smeared it onto the vibrator he'd taken from the hall closet. The plastic was cold; the lube made it even colder. He didn't try to warm it up. If he couldn't blot out his thoughts mentally, then he'd have to do it physically. The more intense the sensations he subjected his body to, the more successful he'd be, and _cold_ was just as good as anything else.

_ You still can't eat, can you? They damaged you that much. You would rather starve yourself now than go through that again, wouldn't you? Do you remember how they —_

Arthur twisted sideways and smothered his face in the pillow as he hooked his hand under his hips, pulled back one of his cheeks, and slid the toy in. He panted, his breaths short and shallow. His toes curled against the sheets. He felt unbearably tight; his body fought the intrusion with every shift, every twitch, while the beginnings of a cramp began to build in his pelvis. The lube was warmed in an instant, heated to body temperature, taking away some of the feeling he wanted so badly. He couldn't afford to lose his concentration, or the demons inhabiting his head would take over again, so he switched the vibrator on and began to move it in a controlled swirling pattern. His fingertips buzzed.

_And do you remember what they did when —_

His ear was flattened into the pillow. The sharp backs of the new earrings pricked the side of his skull. Arthur focused on that, on the little stabs of pain, desperately grateful for the distraction. Down in his lower half, his body refused to adjust — it was hell-bent on trying to either trap the thing that had been wedged inside or force it back out. In a bid to at least get himself aroused (he wasn't even hard), Arthur pulled the dildo out halfway, then angled it upward and shoved it back in. He felt the head dig into his prostate, but it didn't feel as good as he needed it to. His prostate was rarely responsive enough when he was the one attempting to pleasure himself. He pushed harder.

_Even when you screamed and thrashed, even when you felt it rising back up your throat as vomit, they kept forcing you to —_

Arthur yanked the dildo out and flung it away, not waiting to see where it landed. He flipped onto his front, ripped back the covers, and wrapped them around himself before curling into a ball.

"No, it never happened, it never fucking happened, _it never fucking happened_," he shrieked, muffled by the pillow. His voice gave away into sobs, and he clutched at the mattress with trembling hands.

_You knew you would never be able to do anything about it. You knew it was going to haunt you for the rest of your life. You should have just killed yourself when you had the chance. You had plenty of chances._

His tears were getting in his mouth. They were salty, and they burned his tongue.

_Why didn't you?_

"I don't know. I don't know." Arthur wound in on himself. He slapped his hands over his ears, pressed his forehead into his knees as he lay there on his side, buried under a mound of blankets. "I don't know."

Finally, there was nothing but blessed silence.


	14. Fourteen

**-x-x-x-**

* * *

><p><strong>Fourteen<strong>

* * *

><p>Kiku Honda was an . . . unusual individual. He'd only spoken out loud twice in Arthur's presence: the first time was to introduce himself in a polite, detached voice when they entered the hotel room at Raddington — and the second time was to request, in an equally expressionless tone, for Arthur to top. After that, he didn't open his mouth again except to let out tiny, barely audible breaths as Arthur touched him, fondled him, slid into him. Arthur waited for his "kinky" side to show itself, for some evidence of truth in Gilbert's earlier description of Kiku Honda. It never appeared. The Asian boy was stoic; his face remained blank as he lowered himself down on steady hands and knees and edged his thighs apart, not making a sound as he was entered. He offered no reaction, not even when Arthur began to rock his small body back and forth with slow thrusts, the bedsprings whining beneath their combined weight on the bed.<p>

It didn't feel half-bad, even though it was repetitive and mechanical and empty (not that Arthur had expected anything more . . . he wouldn't let himself do that with a client again). As he moved, Arthur found himself wondering randomly, idly, if Kiku was like this with every person he had sex with. If he was even enjoying it at all.

He eased one hand from where it had been grasping Kiku's pale hip down between his legs, felt the hardness of the dick there. His fingers closed around it and began to stroke. He had to make sure his client was feeling good — that was his job. Kiku stiffened at the contact, his inner walls clenching around Arthur in a ripple.

"Let me know if I'm hurting you," Arthur said quietly.

A slight nod.

There was nothing more to say after that. Kiku was utterly silent when he came; Arthur wouldn't have known he'd come at all if it wasn't for the stickiness that suddenly stained his hand. He waited a moment to let him catch his breath, then carefully removed himself.

Kiku sank down on the bed and shut his eyes. He didn't acknowledge Arthur.

Arthur left him to rest and went into the bathroom, where he wearily finished himself off with a few half-hearted pumps, then cleaned away the mess with a damp towel. He hesitated for a moment — the customers that wanted him to top them were few and far in between, and he was never really sure how to treat them afterward, didn't know if he was supposed to cater to _all_ of their needs and take responsibility for helping them clean themselves as well — then decided to be a decent person and wet another towel to take back to Kiku.

He paused in the doorway. Kiku appeared to be asleep, curved into the mattress, his body a half-moon on top of the navy blue covers. One of his arms stretched out to the side, wrist up, and Arthur could just make out a cluster of long, thin scars gleaming in the glow of the ceiling light, precise lines cutting across the otherwise smooth skin of the forearm. A faint sadness filled him.

_He's another one of my kind_, he thought, without really knowing why. _All of us who wear scars . . . we have something in common._ He knew Kiku's scars were most likely different from his own, obtained through other means, but he still felt the connection, tenuous as it was.

_We have all suffered, and endured, and now we have no more hope left._

He wondered if Kiku's life was as directionless and pointless as his own was.

He wondered if Kiku knew Alfred.

That last thought brought Arthur back to his senses. He dismissed it, feeling slightly ridiculous. Just because Alfred and Kiku were both college students didn't mean they knew each other. They probably didn't even attend the same college; the city had four of them, and it was more than probable that neither Alfred nor Kiku actually lived in the city. Their schools could very well be in the outskirts, or somewhere in the suburbs beyond the city's boundaries.

Annoyed at himself for making such implausible assumptions (and for thinking about Alfred so much), Arthur reached out to gently shake Kiku's shoulder and hand the towel to him — but when his fingers were an inch away from touching skin, Kiku's eyes fluttered open. They were a dull, dark brown, but they were very much awake. Arthur got the feeling that he hadn't been asleep at all.

Kiku's hand raised to chest level. He hesitated for a few seconds, then slowly took Arthur by the wrist and gave a small, shy tug. His fingers were slender, cool, white. Arthur understood the cue without further prompting (nearly nothing escaped him — he was tuned to read desires as well as he'd been taught to withstand pain). He set the towel aside, climbed back onto the bed, and prepared himself for round two, scooting backward to brace himself against the wall, placing his hands on Kiku's narrow waist and using his hold to guide the Asian boy into his lap. Their bodies pressed together; Kiku's flesh was soft around his middle and along his thighs, less liberal around his upper torso. Arthur adjusted their positions minutely to keep his own sharp hipbones from digging into Kiku's pelvis, then began to bring them together.

Sometime after they started again, Kiku wound his arms around Arthur's neck and buried his face in the crook of his shoulder. He smelled like tea, newspapers, a type of sweet flower that Arthur couldn't identify. His body relaxed, his muscles loosening, and he let out a low sigh that skimmed over Arthur's collarbone in a warm little rush.

_What is he thinking about?_ mused Arthur. He knew he would probably never know.

Kiku's hands suddenly tensed into claws, his nails scraping Arthur's back. Arthur winced a bit, regained his composure, kept going. He brought their rhythm down to a slower pace, gave Kiku a chance to unwind again and lean back into his chest. After a moment, Kiku did just that, his hands sliding loosely down Arthur's spine, and Arthur was silently relieved that he hadn't hurt him.

The sky was ink-black outside by the time the session ended. After they'd dressed, Kiku turned to Arthur and bowed. Then he straightened and paused, as if he wanted to say something. Arthur waited.

"Do . . . do you . . ." Kiku shook his head. "Nevermind. . . . Thank you for obliging me. I will take my leave now."

Arthur nodded. As he watched Kiku step delicately into his shoes and walk out, fastening the buttons on his coat as he went, he had the impression of some sort of finality. He knew, somehow, that they weren't going to see each other again. He wasn't entirely sure how he felt about that. But he couldn't afford to stand around letting his head fill up with trivial musings, so he filed his thoughts away for later and departed the hotel as soon as he could without arousing suspicion.

It was bitterly cold outside; Arthur barely felt it. Pulling his jacket tighter around himself, he ducked his head down against the wind and went to where Gilbert was waiting in the car.


	15. Fifteen

**-x-x-x-**

* * *

><p><strong>Fifteen<strong>

* * *

><p>Gilbert seemed to be around less and less these days. For what reason, Arthur didn't know, but he wondered if his constant absence was due to something other than bar-hopping and arranging Arthur's schedule. Had he begun conducting personal interviews with customers?<p>

_Unlikely_, Arthur thought, crossing his legs on the bed and rubbing absentmindedly at the healing wound on his calf, feeling the ridges of torn skin where Gilbert had bitten him a few days ago. _I'm sure even Gilbert wouldn't go to such lengths to keep me "safe." The blood tests are already more than enough. _He stretched, ran fingers through his hair, stared at the wall as he fiddled with his piercings.

His little bedroom was a comfortable temperature, warm enough with the door shut to allow Arthur to wear only boxers and a white T-shirt that billowed down to the tops of his thighs. He had been meditating quietly for the past half-hour — which, for him, meant sitting very still on his bed and staring into space, trying to forget the assortment of aches and pains that assaulted him every morning. It was a soothing practice that settled his nerves, and it was also good for killing time.

He had a sudden desire to sit down with a mug of tea and a good book and just spend the rest of the day reading, like he used to do once upon a time when he lived in England. But that notion seemed so far away now. He couldn't remember the last time he'd read a book. He knew there was a public library on the other side of the city, and he'd gone there a few times, but he could never bring himself to stay long enough to read or check something out. Seeing the children in the library — the guileless, round-cheeked children — always made him feel like he didn't belong there, didn't have the right to go to a place where he could come into contact with people who were still uncorrupted and whole. Even being around the tired, honest, hard-working adults made him feel like an outcast.

And he'd always had the irrational fear that he would run into someone he knew. Not because he was afraid of what they were going to do or say to him, but because . . . he wasn't really sure why, exactly. But that wasn't important.

In the very back of his mind, he felt that a place like a library would be somewhere where he would have a high chance of running into a person who would remind him of his mother — and that was the real deterrent. His mother loved books. What if he found her there one day, browsing through the Historical Romance section with her red-blond curls tied back and small lips pursed just so?

_There it is — I'm being stupid again_. _The United States is a large country. Why would she be here, in this city, of all places? Makes no sense._ Arthur closed his eyes, then uncrossed his legs to splay them out before him. His stomach twinged. _She left me behind with an alcoholic father and three older brothers that hated me. She took my little brother with her when she walked out; why didn't she take me, too?_

Yet he wondered if his anger and resentment toward her had become routine, if his circular, unanswered questions were now merely habit. It had all happened so long ago that it hardly seemed to matter anymore.

_I wonder where she is now. I wonder if she's happy living with her second husband, their son, and my younger brother. Has she ever thought of what she left behind these past seventeen years? Does she care?_

_ I wish I could remember my brother's name._

The boy had been . . . what, two years old? Three? What did he look like? Arthur wracked his brain, but try as he might, he couldn't call up the past from seventeen years ago. After a minute, he sighed in frustration and gave up. He couldn't even recall his brother's hair color, much less his face. His own brother, and yet his memory —

He was startled by a soft rapping sound coming from somewhere in the apartment. Emerging from the deep pool of his thoughts, Arthur shifted to the edge of the bed and stood up, cocking his head, listening.

There it was again. Was it the front door? A chill began to creep up the back of Arthur's neck. Nobody ever knocked, because nobody ever needed to — Gilbert was the only one who was constantly coming and going, and he had keys. The landlord never stayed around long enough to call on his tenants when he came by; the neighbors knew better than to bother him and Gilbert, the "strange gay couple" living on the second floor. To top it all off, it was barely seven in the morning. So who was it?

Arthur went to see, his hands clammy as he slid the chain out, undid the latch, pulled the door open by its rusty handle. He realized, belatedly, that his current attire was not suitable for company and that he should probably have glanced through the peephole first to see who it was, but there was no turning back now. He'd already opened the door.

There was nobody there.

Thinking that perhaps whoever it was had simply walked away after knocking, Arthur looked both ways down the hall. No one was in sight; the place was empty, almost eerily so. Confused, he ventured outside to peer down the stairwell off to the left — and flinched when he stepped on something. He quickly jerked his bare foot back.

_A . . ._ Arthur's mind stuttered for a moment as he tried to come up with the name.

_A . . . sunflower?_

He didn't know when he'd last seen one, if he'd _ever_ seen one in real life, but either way, he'd clearly forgotten how massive they were. Its dark green stem was almost three feet in length, leaves sprouting from the sides to fan out on the hall carpet. That was what he'd stepped on — the stem. The flower's blossom was easily half a foot across, if not more, the matted, dark brown center bluntly unattractive against the yellow petals that framed it.

After a few seconds' hesitation, he picked it up gingerly, holding the stem between thumb and forefinger. A loose leaf fluttered to the floor near his toes. _Who is this for?_ He turned it back and forth, looking for a card or tag, but found none.

_Not Gilbert_, he thought, then wondered why he'd thought it. How did he know? The sunflower could very well be for Gilbert.

But it wasn't. For some reason, Arthur knew it wasn't, the same way he knew it hadn't been placed by their door by mistake.

Not knowing what else to do with it (he didn't want to throw it away — it probably wouldn't fit in the trash can anyway), he shut the door and went to fill a cup with water. The makeshift vase would have to do until he could get his hands on a real one. Maybe he would be able to persuade Gilbert to go out and buy one sometime.

_Who put it there? Who put the flower before our door?_

He left the cup with the sunflower on the kitchen counter, and forgot all about it as he returned to his room to continue stewing in his thoughts. It wasn't until later that he remembered, with a _snap_, that his session with Alfred was tonight.

Again, his body stirred rebelliously at the thought — it was a carnal reaction that was now beyond his control — but it was joined this time by a new sensation, a shower of ice in the pit of Arthur's stomach. Then it was that same cycle of questions all over again: _Why does he keep coming back? What does he see in me? Why is he cheating on his girlfriend with me? What does she mean to him? What do I mean to him?_ They flipped through his head so fast they almost made him dizzy. He gripped the sheets under him out of pure instinct, though he was leaning against the wall and nowhere near falling off the edge of the bed.

_Tonight_, he thought, and let go to slide a cool hand inside his boxers, even as dread and anxiety and lust mixed inside him to form something he couldn't bring himself to look at.

Twenty minutes later, when Arthur was lying on his back, dozing lightly, the sound of his phone vibrating on the nightstand woke him up. Rubbing a hand over his bleary eyes, he grabbed the gadget as it jittered across the wooden surface and flicked it open. It was a text message from Gilbert.

_Alfred Jones. 10:00 PM to 6:00 AM. Windsor Green Hotel.  
><em>_Take a cab. Remember what we talked about._

Arthur sat upright, sleepiness draining out of him. _Not Sundale?_ was his first thought, launched on automatic, but once he'd had half a second to think about it, it made sense. _No, not Sundale . . . we'd been going there too often. Any more, and we might get caught. It's surprising we haven't been caught already, actually. I'll have to remind Gilbert to make sure we keep switching hotels._

But he didn't — _couldn't_ — let himself think of a next time, not when it came to Alfred. He couldn't let himself hope after Alfred had betrayed him the way he did.

His phone buzzed again. Shaking Alfred from his mind, Arthur opened the fresh text.

Suddenly, he couldn't breathe.

_You've got a new colleague, Artie. Won't have to handle the workload by yourself from now on, eh? I'll bring him around in a few days so the two of ya can meet. His name's Antonio. You'll give him a warm welcome, won't ya?_

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I originally planned to include Arthur and Alfred's session in this chapter, but . . . well, since you've gotten this far, you're probably familiar with the fact that I like to give "big" events their own separate chapters. So Alfred will show up in Chapter Sixteen. Promise!**

** I'd also like to remind everyone that I LOVE being asked questions about the plot, the characters, just about anything that has to do with _TCOA_. They help me work out the pacing of the story, and they also let me know how much I should reveal/hold back in future chapters. I can't guarantee that I'll answer every question fully, but I'll try to give you a hint, at the very least, to tide you over. So if you're ever in doubt about something, need clarification, or are just plain curious, ask away!**


	16. Sixteen

**-x-x-x-**

* * *

><p><strong>Sixteen<strong>

* * *

><p>Holding the cotton ball between his thumb and index finger, Arthur carefully dabbed some of the special cleansing solution that Elizaveta had given him onto his ear. He tried not to let the tiny cotton fibers snag on the earrings.<p>

After that had been taken care of, he rotated each stud in a full circle, biting his lip at the strange sensation of having something moving in the cartilage of his ear, then — not looking at his reflection in the mirror — returned to his room to get dressed. He was tempted to just throw on some sweatpants and a hoodie over his boxers and T-shirt and call it an outfit, but he knew he couldn't. Gilbert would probably tie him to the bed for a week if he ever caught Arthur slouching around in public in clothes that made him look like a grubby high-school jock.

Honestly, Arthur didn't give much of a damn about his appearance at the moment, and he doubted Alfred would make a fuss over it either. But insecurity and Gilbert's deeply-ingrained principles nudged him to change into his usual jeans and button-up.

_It really doesn't matter what I wear; I'll be taking it all off soon enough_, he thought a bit snarkily as he zipped himself up. He noticed his hands were shaking from nerves, but strangely enough, he didn't _feel_ nervous. Almost as if he was removed from his body — like he was simply an observer, watching everything happen in a dissociated state.

It was reassuring, knowing that his own detached mentality was acting as his safeguard.

He glanced at the clock. Nine forty-two. He could see through the clear glass of the balcony's sliding door in the living room; outside, the sky was oppressively dark, the stars cold, bright pinpoints against a backdrop of nothingness._ Time to get going_, he thought. Windsor Green Hotel was about ten minutes away.

He briefly considered eating something before leaving. He hadn't eaten at all since yesterday, and he didn't feel hungry in the slightest. Yogurt didn't sound too bad — but Gilbert wasn't much of a yogurt person, which meant he most likely hadn't bought any when he went out for groceries. Arthur wasn't sure he'd be able to stomach anything else, so he decided to just go without food for a while longer.

Shouldering his jacket, he left the apartment. His phone was a silent lump in his pocket; there hadn't been any more texts from Gilbert aside from the ones that had been sent that morning. A little spark of . . . _something_ went through Arthur as he recalled the text about "Antonio." Curiosity about the mystery man? Anger that Gilbert was apparently on his way to supplant Arthur? He'd wanted, badly, to text Gilbert back with questions about Antonio — _How old is he? Is he a new one? Where did you find him?_ — but had refrained from doing so. Not only would Gilbert find his pestering annoying, he would probably think that Arthur was high or something. Arthur never asked questions, never showed anything except accepting disinterest when it came to a lot of things, and breaking character now was bound to warrant some suspicion on Gilbert's part. Which he definitely didn't need.

Well, at least he knew the reason behind Gilbert's running around now. That was better than nothing. Arthur hoped Gilbert wasn't planning on having Antonio move in with them — that spelled disaster in more ways than he cared to count, and he was certainly not going to let himself be upstaged by a new whore if he could help it. He was protected by a contract. Gilbert wouldn't go back on his word, would he?

No, he wouldn't. If he did, Arthur would have nowhere to go.

_What makes you think he gives a shit about you? _The voice again. _He only keeps you around for the money and the sex, and he likes branding you because in his eyes, you are nothing more than a pet. A tool. A nobody. Expendable._

_ One whore's as good as another, eh?_

Arthur forcefully banished the thoughts from his head.

On the ride to Windsor Green, he leaned his cheek against the cold window and watched the lights of the city blur past. He wondered, absently, what it would be like to live in the country, away from all the noise and bustle and people rushing to and fro like ants. For once, he didn't feel guilty for letting his imagination run free; he could afford to be fanciful in the privacy of his head, in the handful of minutes before the taxi pulled up before the hotel and he had to begin his work.

Windsor Green was larger than Sundale, but it had more of an industrial feel to it. On the outside, it looked like one of the many featureless, multi-story buildings lining the block. The inside was better, but still rather nondescript. The lobby walls were painted a dark, unassuming green that practically deflected attention. A few plants here and there, the obligatory couches in the corner, the front desk — that was the extent of the décor, assuming the front desk could be legitimately categorized as such.

Alfred wasn't there yet, so Arthur sat down to wait. The man behind the front desk barely spared him a glance.

It was almost ten.

Arthur began to doze off.

A short while later, a hand on his shoulder jerked him back into wakefulness. For a moment, Arthur panicked, forgetting that he'd fallen asleep on a couch at Windsor Green and thinking instead that he was back in the apartment, that it was Gilbert touching him, getting ready to assault him and break him in his sleep — something the albino was wont to do after stumbling home following a night of heavy drinking. He whipped around so fast that he nearly clipped Alfred in the jaw with the back of his head.

Arthur was surprised that Alfred still looked the same. For some reason, he'd thought that with what had happened last time, Alfred would have changed somehow, finally revealed a hidden dark side or some other sort of tangible evidence that he was a cheating liar (though Arthur had to ask himself if a lie of omission — the only real thing that Alfred was guilty of — could truly be counted as a lie). But that clearly hadn't happened; Alfred still appeared to be his amiable, awkward self.

"Hi," he said, retracting his hand. "I'm sorry for scaring you." His mouth quirked nervously into a smile. He looked as if he was expecting Arthur to bite his fingers off or something.

Arthur had the sudden impulse to slap him. Goddamn the boy for being so . . . so _pitiable_ when it was _his_ fault for turning whatever they'd once had into a convoluted mess. For turning _Arthur_ into a convoluted mess. He wanted, in no uncertain terms, to let Alfred know exactly how much he'd . . . he'd . . .

But all Arthur did was nod curtly.

They went up to the hotel room without exchanging a single word. Once the door was shut and locked, Arthur shucked off his shoes and walked to the far side of the room, busied himself with closing the thick, cream-colored curtains. Even after he was done, he continued to adjust the drapes and play with the tassels and run his fingers over the heavy golden embroidery as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world, pointedly keeping his back to Alfred all the while.

Finally, he heard a sigh.

"Look," said Alfred. "I don't . . ." He hesitated. "I don't know what you want me to say. I mean, I know that I . . . kind of hurt you the last time we . . . saw each other, and I really didn't mean to . . . I'm sorry about that, Arthur. I . . ." He left the sentence unfinished, but nevertheless it hung in the air like smoke: _I don't understand what you're expecting of me or why you care so much about my having a girlfriend._

_I am being completely and utterly unprofessional_, thought Arthur. But at the moment, he couldn't bring himself to give a flying fuck. "You should have told me sooner," he said, his teeth cold.

"About my girlfriend?" Now Alfred sounded bewildered. "Was I . . . _supposed_ to? Is that part of the . . . I don't know . . . the rules?"

That simple question was a reminder — an indication of the naïve innocence in Alfred that still seemed to prevail at the most unexpected moments. Arthur wanted to let him know that there were no such things as _rules_ in the industry, that it was almost basic _etiquette_ to let the whore that was falling in love with you know that you were already involved with someone else, but refrained from doing so. He sounded prissy and unreasonable even to himself, and it sickened him to realize that he had fallen this far just because of a hot college student that had screwed him a few times since meeting him less than a month ago.

He turned. "Why did you want us to be friends?" he asked without prelude.

"Didn't _you_ want to be friends?"

The answer exploded out of Arthur. "No! I'm a bloody prostitute, and you're my bloody client — you're not supposed to want to become friends with someone you hire for sex, and _especially_ not when you're hiring that person behind your girlfriend's back!"

Alfred's jaw set. "Well, it was still my choice, wasn't it? I wanted to be friends with you. I _want_ to be friends with you. This has nothing to do with Vanessa or the fact that I hired you for sex. To me, it's about meeting someone new, not about the . . . other stuff."

Arthur was so frustrated by the simplicity of Alfred's viewpoint that he was having trouble finding the words to argue with him. At last, he settled for: "That is the stupidest and shallowest thing I've heard you say."

He had gone too far. He was sure he had gone too far. That was the first time he'd insulted Alfred so blatantly — and to his face, too. He wasn't even certain if he'd meant what he'd said, but it had slipped out on its own in the wake of his anger, and now there was no taking it back. Insides trembling, Arthur waited for Alfred to do something, to insult him back or hit him or, at the very least, just spin around and walk out without a backward glance and leave him as crushed as he deserved to be.

Instead, Alfred crossed the room and pulled him against his chest.

Arthur's first reaction was to flounder. "What are you doing? Let me go!" he demanded.

"No."

"Why are you — you don't even —" Arthur thrashed, but Alfred's arms didn't loosen.

"No," repeated Alfred, "no, I don't know you, not really, but that doesn't stop me from _caring_." Before Arthur could interrupt, he said, "I don't like hurting people. I don't like seeing people get hurt. And yet I'm doing both: hurting my girlfriend by being with you, and seeing you with all of those scars you won't tell me anything about. But I'm going to make it worthwhile — I'm going to _do_ something about it. I've been planning to break up with Vanessa for a while, for both my sake and her sake, and you helped me make a final decision. Did you know that? After I slept with you, I knew I couldn't stay with her. Why do you think I keep coming back? It's because I'm _gay_, Arthur. I can't do with her what I do with you. I just can't. I can't have sex with her, and I can't connect with her even though she's one of the nicest people I'll ever meet, because she's a girl and she wouldn't get it, not in a million years. So please . . . please don't be jealous, okay?"

Something in Arthur froze. _He knew? He _knew_?_ "I'm not jealous! How dare you assume —"

"I'm not assuming. Please, Arthur, just listen to me. I just want to stop hurting you. Honest." Alfred's voice had softened. "You've already been hurt too much. I can tell. I don't want to add to it."

"And so you're making up for it by toying with my feelings. I understand," Arthur bit out.

Alfred sucked in a breath. "I swear that I'm not toying with you! I mean it! I really do want to be friends. Just give me a chance."

The conversation was becoming far too intimate for Arthur's liking. _He doesn't know what he's talking about_, he thought bitterly. _He doesn't have a single idea of how I really feel, and I'm just being overly emotional and making a mountain out of a goddamn molehill. We're still strangers to each other, for Christ's sake! He's playing the good Samaritan because he sees a poor, abused whore, not because he actually sees _me_, Arthur Kirkland._

This had to stop. Inside his head, Arthur sharply berated himself for letting it get so out of hand. He wormed his way out of Alfred's embrace and stepped out of his range. "Let's not talk about this anymore."

"But —"

"Your money's being wasted. Come." He began to undo the buttons on his shirt. Once they were all loose, he slid the garment off and dropped it on the chair next to the bed.

Alfred was obviously disoriented by the sudden shift in focus. "Wait, what are you doing?"

"Stripping." Arthur removed the tube of lubrication from his jeans pocket, tossed it on a pillow. He grabbed Alfred's hand, pulling it toward himself and his lower half. "Last time, you wanted to touch me, correct? Here, do what you want." The zipper came down easily, and Arthur used his hold on Alfred's wrist to shove Alfred's hand down the front of his pants. Alfred's fingers closed around him instinctively, and Arthur leaned his head back. Took a deep breath. Savored without letting himself think of anything else.

"Wait," Alfred said again, his voice indecisive. But he'd already been caught up in Arthur's pace, and soon they were a tangle of limbs on the bed, shedding clothes and fumbling through preparation and fucking with that inexplicable, tightly-coiled tension that always found them and trapped them while they were in the throes of lust. Arthur was meeting Alfred's thrusts dead-on, using the agility of his body to arch himself back, clutching the bedcovers, the wet, muted slap of lubed skin on lubed skin obscene in the small room. Propped up on his arms above him, Alfred had a dazed look on his face, as if he was still confused as to how they got to where they were.`

They had been mostly quiet throughout, but Arthur was nearing his peak and the words kind of just spilled out of him. "Fine. Fine, you can — _uh _— have your chance. But why do you want — _nn_ — want it so much?"

That seemed to shake Alfred out of his semi-stunned state. He blinked a few times, slowed down. When he finally found his voice, he spoke with resolve. "Because I _will_ prove to you that you're worth something. Even though" — his muscles tensed when Arthur deliberately clamped down around him, but he refused to give up — "even though I _can_ be stupid and shallow, I can also . . . do things right." _Believe in me_, he was saying.

Arthur honestly couldn't bring himself to. Why would he? Alfred had no obligation to him, and after meeting Gilbert and living with him for four years, Arthur wasn't about to trust in the kindness of a stranger, even though he was falling as he tried to convince himself that he was standing on solid ground, that he had already hit rock bottom, that there was nowhere else to go but up.


	17. Seventeen

**-x-x-x-**

* * *

><p><strong>Seventeen<strong>

* * *

><p>"So you . . . hired me because you're gay." It wasn't a question.<p>

Now that his mind had cleared, Arthur was already regretting allowing Alfred a second chance. _I must have sounded desperate_, he thought, staring up at the swirls of plaster in the ceiling without really seeing them. _I must have sounded exactly like what I am: an attention-starved whore. I should have just said no, and left it at that. Why do I do this to myself? Do I enjoy making myself suffer that much?_ He felt pitifully weak, knowing that he still couldn't deny Alfred what he wanted.

_ My dignity and my pride — what little is left of them — are already torturing me, and just for this small concession. Refusing Alfred is a battle I can't win, but I have to try, at least for my own sake, even if it feels like I'm waging a goddamn internal war._

"Uh . . ." Alfred trailed off. It was just past one in the morning; he was still recovering from the last round, his face pressed into Arthur's stomach and his arms loosely cradling Arthur's thighs as he lay splayed out on the bed between Arthur's legs. It didn't look too comfortable, and his words slurred slightly as his lips moved against skin, but Arthur supposed he was too tired to move. He himself was half-sitting, half-lying against the headboard, hands resting lightly on Alfred's back, his position set at an angle that allowed him to alternate between scrutinizing the ceiling and quietly admiring the expanse of Alfred's body — his sturdy shoulders, his broad back, the masculine taper of his hips and the gentle rise of his backside. His tan wasn't as obvious as it had been before — winter had set in, after all, and there was hardly any sun — but it was still _there_, and it gave Alfred a charming, summer-boy appeal that Arthur found really hard to resist.

After a few seconds of lethargic contemplation, Alfred tried again. "Um, kind of. It's more like, I wasn't really _sure_ until we . . . y'know. Had sex." He yawned. Arthur felt his canines brush the skin near his hip — and he froze, reminded of Gilbert's biting habit, of sharp points sinking into his flesh, so close to rupturing a vein. He only managed to relax again after Alfred's mouth closed back over his teeth.

As he mulled over Alfred's words, his hands moved on their own as they began to stroke Alfred's skin in slow, smooth circles. A hopeful little _something_ fluttered free in his chest; he didn't have the energy to tamp it back down. "I see."

"I mean," Alfred continued sleepily, apparently soothed by Arthur's touch, "I was always . . . _aware_ of other guys. How they looked, how they moved, second glances in the locker room back at my old high school — that kind of thing. Back then, I'd always sort of wondered why girls didn't seem as attractive to me as they did to all my guy friends . . . a lot of the time I had girls all over me like whoa, and the others were like, 'Dude, cut it out, you're stealing all the chicks,' but I never really got why it was such a big deal." He grinned sheepishly, his breaths warm and concentrated on Arthur's bare skin. "Probably 'cause I was too busy secretly checking out one of the guys on the lacrosse team."

Arthur allowed himself a smile at that (and at Alfred's drowsy talkativeness).

"That was the beginning of it, back when I was still able to talk myself out of thinking too hard about my sexuality. It just didn't seem important, you know? It didn't seem _real_. And then . . . I came to college. Hung out with more people. Met Vanessa." Alfred shifted. The smile slid off Arthur's face at the mention of the girlfriend, and his hands stilled on the crest of a shoulder blade. _Vanessa_, he thought tightly. _I bet she's just his type_ —_ or would be his type, if he were straight. Pretty, blond, and energetic, with a slim body and large breasts and . . ._

"That's — that's when it started getting harder to ignore. I mean, I was there, and she was there, and it . . . well, we didn't really _click_ like people in movies do and whatnot, but I figured, 'Hey, she's pretty nice, she likes me, and I kind of like her too, so why not try it out and see where it goes?' But then . . . I just didn't . . . _feel_ anything for her."

"You didn't want to sleep with her," clarified Arthur.

Alfred's cheeks flushed hot against Arthur's stomach. "Yeah. The thought of her didn't — doesn't — turn me on. I . . . I can't get it up when I'm alone, when I . . . um . . ."

"Think about her while you're masturbating?" Arthur found it endearing that Alfred could go as far as to hire a male prostitute for sex and still have trouble talking about suggestive topics. That, and the fact that he was really predictable about it. He wondered how Alfred had summoned the courage to call Gilbert up and arrange a session without having a prudish breakdown.

Alfred didn't answer, just made an embarrassed, affirmative sound.

It felt strange to be recalling the opinions and beliefs he'd held since he was a teenager — they'd been caged up for years, gathering dust in the forgotten back corners of his mind — but Arthur did it anyway. And was surprised to find that it was consoling, almost like returning home after a long day and remembering just how good it felt to be somewhere he was familiar with. "Alfred, the fact that a girl — that Vanessa — doesn't arouse you doesn't make you any less of a man. You do realize that, right? Everyone has inherently different tastes, likes and dislikes; there's no need to think any less of yourself for it."

Personally, Arthur had never truly understood the struggle that people who were "in the closet" went through. He himself had never experienced it; he hadn't been interested in either girls _or_ guys up until the day Gilbert found him, and since then, he'd been sleeping exclusively with men. He was a male prostitute, not a gigolo, but he felt he could easily have been the other if that was where circumstances had led him. "Gay," to him, was nothing more than a label, a mark of judgment that didn't affect him negatively in any way that he cared about — it actually gave him an advantage when it came to the types of customers he drew. He was who he was and he liked what he liked; there was no point in being displeased with his own preferences.

And he hadn't felt . . . _attracted _to anyone in particular until he met Alfred. Even the phase with Gilbert at the start of it all had been nothing more than a passing whim, a flighty fancy, an idealistic, naïve crush that was and meant nothing, effortlessly wiped out by the cruel treatment he'd received at Gilbert's hands.

_Besides, isn't a person's ability to reconcile with him- or herself more important than what society labels them?_ Then Arthur instantly felt hypocritical. Didn't he himself have an image, a "label," to uphold, to fret over? But perhaps the question of sexuality was different from the question of whoring oneself out for money . . . or maybe it was a moot point, because he'd shed his qualms about being a prostitute an eternity ago.

He thought, _Alfred is still young and untainted, though. He's not the same._

Raising his head, Alfred looked directly at Arthur, his eyes disorientingly blue, pale as the sky and equally depthless as the clouded sleepiness left them. He opened his mouth, and Arthur thought, _He's going to ask, 'How did _you_ come to terms with your own sexuality?' or 'What do _you_ like and dislike?' or something just as intrusive and personal, a question that I'll end up answering anyway just because _he_ is the one who asked it_. He held Alfred's gaze. Waited for the words to fall from those parted lips, waited for the inevitable curiosity.

Alfred said, "You got your ear pierced."

Thrown by the randomness of the comment, Arthur blinked once. Twice. "What?" His hand flew up automatically to touch his ear, the silver earrings cool against his fingertips. He realized Alfred hadn't been looking into his eyes at all. He'd been staring at the piercings. "Yes . . . I did," Arthur said cautiously. "What of it?" As discreetly as he could in the face of that intense blue scrutiny, he untucked his hair from behind his ear (his bangs were growing longer; he'd need a haircut soon) and let it sweep forward, covering the studs.

In a move that seemed both bold and tender, Alfred reached up and brushed the hair out of the way again, his brow furrowing slightly as he raised himself up onto one elbow. He was almost face-to-face with Arthur now, his knuckles just touching Arthur's cheek as he continued to examine the new additions to Arthur's ear. Arthur could feel his own face beginning to heat up for no visible reason — other than the fact that he wasn't used to closeness, not _this_ kind of closeness — and it was all he could do to stay still with Alfred hovering half a breath before him. He was suddenly very aware that they were both still naked, still streaked with cum and dried sweat and who knew what else.

"They look good on you," Alfred said slowly, his expression thoughtful. "They give you . . . an _edge_." His mouth split into a grin.

Arthur was speechless for a moment. Then, after a struggle to hide the happiness bubbling up inside him, he said, in a composed voice, "Thank you. I'm — I'm —" He hesitated for a heartbeat as he searched for the words he wanted. "I'm . . . glad you think so."

Alfred practically radiated. With a laugh, he threw his arms around Arthur's ribs and flipped them, landing on his back, Arthur flailing as he found himself manhandled into straddling Alfred's midsection. He had to throw out a hand to steady himself on the mattress, narrowly missing Alfred's left cheek.

"Ready?" Alfred's grin had softened into a smile, but it had all the intent of the devil behind it. His abdominal muscles were firm under Arthur — it would almost have been like sitting on a wooden plank if it hadn't been for the warmth of Alfred's skin, thrumming lightly with his pulse and the life coursing through him. Alfred's large hands closed around Arthur's hips, and as he was guided backward and into position, Arthur felt the head of Alfred's hardened cock rubbing the delicate flesh along the bottom of his thigh. _Oh_, was all his brain had time to come up with before he aligned their bodies on his own and seated himself without further assistance, feeling the instinctive ripple of Alfred's abs against the undersides of his balls and hearing the puff of breath that escaped Alfred's mouth.

He wanted this. No, he _needed_ this — more than Alfred could ever know, and more than he himself could ever fathom. _Is this love?_ Arthur asked himself once more. He planted the palms of his sweaty hands on Alfred's chest. Felt the heart thumping heavily, excitedly, seemingly just under the skin. _Is it called love when I can't get enough of him? When my body wants to be close to his, when it makes me so content to feel his heart throbbing under my fingers? Or is it just lust?_

Alfred's gaze latched onto his own, drawing him in, allowing a tentative, vibrant connection to form between them. His grip said, _What turns me on is what we're doing right now_, and his face said, _I am not ashamed of it._ His eyes whispered, _Thank you. _

Pressing down harder, Arthur finally admitted defeat and let himself stop regretting his decision to give Alfred a second chance.

_To hell with dignity and pride_, he thought with a sudden rebelliousness that surprised himself._ This is what he wants, and this is what I want; who am I to deny him or myself? Who is there to stop me — to stop _us_? _There was an answer to that, but he couldn't think of it at the moment, not with Alfred inside him and filling him and fulfilling something that was beyond both of their physical pleasures. And for the first time, he was truly glad to forget, because forgetting had turned from a necessity into a privilege. He relished it for what it was: pure and simple indulgence — something that, for the time being, no one could take away from him.


	18. Eighteen

**-x-x-x-**

* * *

><p><strong>Eighteen<strong>

* * *

><p><em>Ivan Braginski. 9:00 AM to 11:00 AM. Braginski home (13 Carber Lane).<br>Take a cab._

Carber Lane was on the outskirts of the city, a stone's throw away from where the industrial landscape melded into the suburbs. The houses that lined the cracked sidewalk were old, large, forgotten — structures that might have once been grandiose and proud, but now seemed to hunch over their lots like aging spinsters, unhappy with where their fates had ultimately led them and powerless to do anything about it. There were obviously residents, if the tended hydrangea bushes and the cars parked in the driveways were any indication, but the neighborhood felt drained of life. Even the grass was tinted brown, the thin blades wilting in the weak sun.

All of it unnerved Arthur, and he had to wonder what kind of person Ivan Braginski was.

The cab driver appeared to become increasingly nervous the farther they progressed down the street. He pulled over in front of house number thirteen, hurriedly collected his payment, then took off as soon as Arthur had shut the door behind him. Arthur barely spared the departing vehicle a glance; instead, he turned to take in the house before him.

It was a mansion of sorts, with at least four floors and an old wrap-around porch that was beginning to rot in the corners. Ivy crawled in liberal tendrils up the west side of the house, obscuring several windows and weaseling into breaks in the splintering wood, reaching fingers almost all the way up to the slanted roof tiles. Tiny wild flowers sprouted from cracks, while some unidentifiable, leafy vegetation sprawled across the path that led to the front steps.

Arthur stood there for a moment. Something, he mused, about the overgrown flora seemed calculated, carefully gauged and controlled to creep into the right places and steer clear of the rest; it conveyed the impression that the resident (or residents) of 13 Carber Lane had been intent on making the place seem as inhospitable to outsiders as possible.

Gilbert _had_ given him the right address, right?

The memory of waking up early that morning in Alfred's warm, sturdy arms was still fresh in Arthur's mind. They'd had time for one last round, but Alfred had declined the unspoken invitation presented by Arthur's parted legs and instead went to retrieve the lube. Arthur had been both puzzled and curious, watching as Alfred drizzled the lotion over his fingers — but his confusion quickly dissipated when he felt those same fingers pressing into him. Surprised, he'd looked up at Alfred, who blushed.

_ I _—_ I just want to try fingering you_, Alfred had said. It hadn't been the first time he'd done it, but it became apparent that this time Alfred had meant _only_ fingering and no sex, because he poked and swirled and spread his fingers until Arthur couldn't take it anymore and, with a soft whimper, came against his stomach. It was almost embarrassing how Alfred had then touched the semen with such child-like curiosity — gliding his fingertips through the whitish-clear fluid and then staring at his hand as if he'd never seen the stuff before — before asking, in a voice that reached a new level of intimacy, _What does it taste like?_

_Don't_, Arthur had warned, without truly knowing why. And Alfred had obeyed, looking slightly crestfallen as he wiped his hand with a tissue from a box on the nightstand. He hadn't pursued the topic further, for which Arthur was thankful. He felt like it would take only so much awkwardness for the strain to reappear in their newly fixed relationship (if one could call it that).

Then there had been Alfred's . . . benevolent gesture.

After they'd both cleaned up and dressed, Arthur had said with a sudden jolt of memory, _Ah. I'm sorry . . . I haven't spoken to Gilbert about the refund. It slipped my mind. I'll do it when I see him tonight._ Even though he had the feeling that Gilbert would kill him for it.

Alfred had stuffed his hands into his pockets. _Oh, that's okay. You can keep it. I . . . um . . . I don't need it that much. _He'd flushed again, and Arthur knew better than to inquire further. It was none of his business, and it was the least he could do to respect Alfred's privacy. But all in all, it had struck a chord. Nobody parted with such a sum of money lightly. Was Alfred just a generous person (a college boy from a rich family), or did he have some ulterior motive like so many other people Arthur knew?

Nonetheless, they had parted on amicable terms — the atmosphere between them as similar to that of their last meeting as hot was to cold. Even now, Arthur felt like a great weight had been lifted off his chest, finally allowing him to fill his lungs with air.

His line of reminiscence was interrupted when the door to Mr. Braginski's house creaked open.

A young woman stepped out onto the porch. The first thing that struck Arthur was her hair — it was very long and straight, flowing unhindered past her waist in a way that seemed almost . . . immaterial. Weightless. It fluttered out behind her as she descended the unsteady front steps with an ease that suggested years of familiarity. Once she had left the shadows cast by the house, her hair — lit by the sun — became a lustrous cascade of silver-blond. Arthur tried not to focus too much on her, tried not to stare, but he couldn't pull his eyes away. The fact that she had emerged from Mr. Braginski's home only made her even more of a magnet for attention.

_Is she a maid? A servant of some sort? _he wondered. She didn't seem to be; her outfit, a crisp white blouse and sweeping navy skirt with stiletto boots, seemed too high-class for such a lowly occupation. He suddenly realized she wasn't wearing any sort of coat — her white arms were bare. No gloves or scarf in sight, either. Didn't the coldness of winter bother her at all?

She noticed him as her heels clicked onto the pavement. Her eyes flickered over him briefly, and upon taking him in, her expression shifted from disinterest to disdain. With a flick of her hair, she turned and kept walking without so much as a greeting, her silence as frosty as the air around them. Arthur watched her disappear around the corner of the block.

_That was strange. Did I offend her in some way? Or could she tell what I'm here for just by looking at me?_ He glanced back at the house. _She's young . . . perhaps she's related to Mr. Braginski. A sister? A cousin? She might even be his wife . . . which would explain her chilly attitude._ If she truly was Mr. Braginski's wife . . . Arthur wondered wearily if there was a couple in the entire city in which one of the partners wasn't cheating on the other. It seemed as if that was all he was seeing these days — unfaithfulness and adultery, unwinding again and again like an endless roll of film. A miserable cycle that no one could get out of or resist being drawn into.

A cycle that Alfred had participated — was participating — in.

_Alfred_, he remembered whispering at some point during the night. Alfred had been dozing lightly on the other pillow, and the sound of Arthur's voice reeled him back into wakefulness. _Alfred . . . can I . . . ask you something?_

_ Hmm?_ Alfred murmured.

Arthur swallowed. Fought sleep as it crept up on him. _Did you ever give me a sunflower?_

_Huh? Sunflower . . . ? I dunno what you're talking about. . . ._

_ Oh. Never mind. _And then they'd both fallen asleep again, Alfred gently taking Arthur into the curve of his shoulder as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do.

It was another random memory, one that made Arthur feel odd in several different ways. He made a mental note to find out who had left the sunflower so nonchalantly by his door, and began to make his way up the rickety steps to the Braginski house. It was time to focus; he'd dallied long enough among his recollections. He hoped Mr. Braginski wouldn't mind his being a few minutes late.


	19. Nineteen

**-x-x-x-**

* * *

><p><strong>Nineteen<strong>

* * *

><p>"I told you," Arthur repeated, "I don't remember what happened."<p>

He was sitting on the couch back at their apartment, his hands folded in his lap. They were heavily bandaged. His fingertips poked out among the strips of white cloth, raw and red and swollen, while the pale skin of his wrists and forearms was marred with dabs of dark purple. Bruises — ones that he couldn't remember receiving.

Gilbert paced furiously back and forth in front of him, his face contorted with rage. "How the fuck do ya not remember somethin' like that? He nearly fuckin' broke all your fingers!"

Arthur dropped his gaze. It was strange; he recalled waking up with Alfred yesterday, recalled leaving him and arriving at the Braginski home on Carber Lane, but everything after that was a blank. His first solid memory after the session with Ivan Braginski was being pushed through the door of the apartment and watching Gilbert rush off to unearth the first aid kit. Even then, his mind had felt curiously flat. Detached. Dissociated. The time before the incident and the time after it were joined seamlessly in the middle, sewn together by an unseen hand, the stitches hidden. It was as if nothing had ever happened in between.

He couldn't feel his hands. He couldn't move his fingers. He knew they were hurting like hell even though he was on about three different types of pain medication, but he couldn't _feel_ them. He didn't feel much of anything. Maybe a bit of mild concern, but that was the extent of it.

A long time ago — long before he'd come to the U.S. — he'd read a book on psychology. He dimly recalled a rather dry paragraph explaining how a person could, essentially, blot out his or her memories after suffering a particularly traumatic event. It was one of the body's natural defense mechanisms, almost the same as the endorphins released when one was in pain. He must have mentally removed himself during the session with Ivan Braginski to the point where he was no longer aware of what was happening, and stayed in a similarly dissociated state until Gilbert had managed to get him back to the apartment, when his mind deemed it safe enough to let him return to his senses. Even now, Arthur found it hard to truly care, even though he knew he should — even though he knew there was wrong with him because he didn't.

Try as he might, he couldn't remember what had occurred yesterday at the Braginski house. He couldn't even remember what the interior had looked like, only the crawling, climbing ivy and the dilapidated walls on the outside. That was the purpose of the defense mechanism, wasn't it? If he had no memory of what had happened, then it wouldn't hurt him any more than it already had.

There was a name for it. It had been the heading for that passage in the book. PTSD . . . post-traumatic stress disorder.

Curiously enough, Arthur didn't feel stressed, or distressed. He felt normal; perhaps he was a little more indifferent than usual, but that wasn't anything out of the ordinary. The only abnormality was the gap in his recollections of the previous day. Everything else was perfectly fine.

His faulty memory was doing a good job of protecting him, then.

Gilbert was ranting again. "You're never fuckin' goin' back to him again, do ya hear me? I can't have him doin' whatever he wants to ya — ya've got other customers! You're not his goddamn toy to break!"

_No, I'm yours_, Arthur thought.

"I swear to Jesus he's payin' the goddamn bills if ya gotta go to the hospital 'cause of this. I've already had to cancel Mathias Køhler's appointment . . . can't have ya goin' to see him when your hands are useless. Jesus fuckin' Christ, if I see Ivan again, I'll fuckin' kill him . . ." Gilbert kept rambling along the same vein for several minutes. Arthur merely sat where he was and watched him march back and forth. He didn't offer any more of his account — what little he had to say about the incident — and Gilbert didn't demand it again.

Finally, after he'd wound down some, Gilbert flopped onto the couch next to Arthur and eyed his bandaged hands with disgust. "Well, nothin' ya can do 'til those heal up," he said.

Arthur held his silence.

Gilbert glanced at his face, then snorted derisively. "What, Artie? Cat got your tongue?" When he still got no response, his mouth split unexpectedly into a toothy grin, and he reached up to ruffle Arthur's hair. "Oh, so ya've learned to keep your mouth shut, eh? That's my good li'l' whore." He leaned over and nipped the tender flesh behind Arthur's ear. Arthur forced himself not to wince.

"Well, I'm goin' out tonight with Francis and Antonio. New bar opened up in Wicker — ya know where that is." Arthur did indeed know; Wicker could, in most people's books, qualify as one of the city's red-light districts, resplendent in brothels and nightclubs and other seedy "pleasure" establishments. Gilbert continued, "Gonna be comin' back pretty late" — which, in his terms, meant no sooner than after four in the morning — "so don't go waitin' up for me. Ya got that? Good."

Both of them knew full-well that Arthur would never wait up unless he was commanded to.

Arthur took Gilbert's careless tone as a dismissal and stood up to go back to his room. He'd gotten maybe half a step away from the couch before he felt steel fingers close around his hip and drag him backward. He landed on his back on the cushions, with his head propped up by the armrest, and Gilbert's face was suddenly looming over his own, eyes sharp and mischievous.

He hissed sweetly, "Ya obviously can't use your hands anymore, but we can't have your mouth go out of practice, Artie." His hands had already gone to unfasten his own belt.

Arthur shut his eyes and submitted.


	20. Twenty

**-x-x-x-**

* * *

><p><strong>Twenty<strong>

* * *

><p>The situation Arthur woke up to the next morning would have been both comedic in its ridiculousness and somewhat disturbing at the same time if his backside didn't hurt so much. As it was, all that came to mind the moment his eyes opened was the utter discomfort centered somewhere near his tailbone and the surrounding regions. Then — once he'd gotten past that — he slowly began to register the rest of the scene.<p>

Instead of being in his bed (which he distinctly remembered retiring to the previous night), he was sprawled out on the couch, naked except for his partially unbuttoned shirt. One of his legs was hooked over the armrest, while his corresponding hand dangled gently off the side. The bandages were still on, but they felt old and damp, cement-heavy. His fingers smarted when he tried to move them.

He didn't sleepwalk. That much he knew. So someone — most likely Gilbert — had moved him while he was asleep. Arthur sat up gingerly, trying to ignore the shooting pain that went straight up his spine, and propped himself up against the back of the couch. Without the use of his hands, this took several seconds longer than it should have. It was only when he was finally upright that he noticed the living room's state of drunken chaos.

There were two people, two men, spread-eagled on the carpet in the depths of slumber, one on either side of the coffee table. They both lacked the unique silvery sheen of Gilbert's hair — one was dark brunette, the other blond. In fact, Arthur concluded after a quick glance around the room, Gilbert himself was nowhere to be seen (passed out on his bed, most likely). He did, however, see the plethora of empty wine and beer bottles scattered about. The scent of alcohol was overpowering, as if someone had poured it all over the furniture.

He moved to rise to his feet, and had to stop almost at once when the pain from earlier caused his knees to go weak. Weary and defeated, Arthur let himself fall back down into a slump, trying to keep the pressure off his tailbone. _Okay_, he thought groggily. _Let's figure this out, one step at a time. This pain . . . means that there was sex last night, and that I bottomed for most — if not all — of it. The beer and wine bottles are probably Gilbert's doing. And the two people . . . are the drinking friends that he brought back with him for some reason? _He looked down at them again. One of them seemed vaguely familiar.

"Francis?"

A grunting snore was all Arthur got in response. But there wasn't any mistaking the Frenchman — his signature wavy hair and the shadow of stubble that was ever-present on his chin were all the confirmation Arthur needed.

_Gilbert did say last night that he was going to go out drinking with Francis and Antonio_, Arthur remembered. His attention switched to the other man, the one with the dark brown hair and toffee-colored skin. _That must be Antonio, then._ He waited for the jealousy and irritation he'd felt before to flare up, but to his surprise, he felt nothing. It was like his mind was on standby, and it had judged Antonio to be too unimportant to bring it back into full functioning mode.

Arthur thought, _He hasn't replaced me. At least, not yet. Which is probably why I don't think of him as much of a threat. Nothing feels real until it actually happens. _Out of habit, he tried to recall his session with Ivan, and when his memory skated over than blank gap yet again, he sighed, tuned out the familiar tightening in his chest. _And sometimes not even then. _

_ Or it could just be that I'm too tired to think straight._

He stood up, stepped over the sleeping bodies on the floor, and went into the bathroom. As always, he avoided the mirror, and went through his usual morning routine. His hands gave him some trouble, but Arthur was quickly learning to improvise; he gripped his toothbrush in an awkward but workable fist that put most of the pressure on his relatively uninjured palm. It still hurt — _all_ of it hurt, actually, much more than the day before — but Arthur had suffered worse. He went on to clean his earrings with a certain air of defiance, silently proud that he wasn't so easily deterred by his injuries.

_It's inconsequential in the long run_, he thought to himself. _What doesn't kill me will make me stronger._

He wondered when he would reach his breaking point — then decided it was a pointless topic to speculate about.

He'd learned not to close the door all the way, leaving just enough of a crack to ease it open with his foot. His hands couldn't handle turning a doorknob, not in their present state. Besides, it was unlikely that Gilbert would drag his hungover self out of bed this early just to jump Arthur in the bathroom. Arthur was safe for the moment.

After he was done with all of the easy things, Arthur stood where he was for a few seconds, staring at the medicine cabinet. How was he going to change the bandages himself? His hands were useless — they were what _needed_ bandaging, after all — and he couldn't go wake Gilbert up to do it for him, for obvious reasons. _Maybe if I do it slowly, and try to strain my fingers as little as possible . . ._

"Need help, _querido_?"

Startled, Arthur spun around.

It was the man who he'd assumed was Antonio. He leaned against the doorframe with his head against his arm, head cocked at a slightly quizzical angle as he ran fingers through his mussed hair. His eyes were only half-open, his dark lashes fluttering like he was going to doze off again at any moment. The sleepy smile that wreathed his mouth was . . . vastly appealing, despite how much it bothered Arthur to admit it. _Here's another example of handsomeness and perfection_, he thought with some resentment. _As if Alfred, Gilbert, and Francis aren't enough . . . how many physically attractive people are there out in the world? Am I the only black sheep?_ He realized rather belatedly that he was naked from the waist down, but Antonio didn't seem to care. Instead, the man breezed right past him, took the rolls of bandages out of the cabinet, and lowered the lid on the toilet before gesturing for Arthur to sit.

Arthur watched him, bewildered. "What are you doing?"

"Helping you. You can't change those bandages on your own, right?"

"Why?"

Antonio glanced up from where he'd been unrolling one of the lengths of white gauze. "Do I need a reason?" he asked mildly, before indicating for Arthur to sit down again.

Not knowing what else to do, Arthur obeyed. Antonio began unraveling the old bandages from his hands in swift, gentle motions, careful not to cause more disturbance to his fingers than necessary. He raised his eyebrows at the puffy, discolored skin and the sticky lacerations that had yet to close. "Wow, whoever did this must've had some serious anger management issues. Does it hurt?" With the utmost care, he turned one of Arthur's hands over. "Whoa — are those rope burns?"

Arthur lowered his head. "I don't know."

Antonio didn't press any further. He laid Arthur's hands down on his thighs and went to get the rubbing alcohol. Arthur tried not to flinch when the burning liquid was daubed into the wounds, but he couldn't keep his muscles from quivering from the effort of keeping still. Antonio was painstakingly using the cotton swab to clean around the cuts and keep the fibers from snagging on the slowly healing skin. After that was done, he wrapped Arthur's hands up again with fresh gauze and tied it in place.

"There you go. All set."

Arthur looked up at him, trying to gauge his thoughts, his intentions, his motive. "Th-thank you," he said uncertainly, cautiously.

"No problem." Antonio bent down to kiss him once on the mouth, very lightly, before going to put the medical supplies away. It didn't register in Arthur's brain until several seconds later. And then all he felt was confusion.

He hadn't been kissed in years. He couldn't remember if he'd _ever_ been kissed. Antonio had done it so casually, as if it were nothing more than a handshake — and they didn't even know each other, did they? Antonio was attractive, there was no doubting that, but . . . Arthur didn't know whether to feel puzzled, offended, or merely tired. He couldn't summon up any other, stronger emotions. He didn't have the will to. Had he become too jaded to care?

Should a kiss mean something to a prostitute, or was it just like one of Gilbert's bites — lustful, fleeting, devoid of significance?

"What was that for?" he asked in a stilted voice. Then, "Do you even know who I am?"

"Of course I do. You're Gilbert's whore," Antonio replied easily. It didn't sound like an insult coming from him, though. He presented it in a matter-of-fact sort of way, as if it was nothing but the truth. After everything was back in its place, Antonio offered Arthur one last smile and walked out, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him. Arthur heard his footsteps move back into the living room.

He brushed his mouth with the back of his wrist softly, as if to see whether the tingling in his lips would go away. He tried to imagine kissing Alfred the same way — tender, ephemeral, a flap of feathered wings. But he couldn't do it; because, in the end, Alfred really didn't deserve to touch lips that had been tainted with hundreds of blowjobs and, now, a kiss from another whore, another fellow sufferer.

Arthur began to hate Antonio.


	21. Twenty one

**-x-x-x-**

* * *

><p><strong>Twenty-one<strong>

* * *

><p>Despite the convoluted mess of emotions he felt in regards to their relationship with each other, Arthur was confusingly, voicelessly, shamelessly addicted to Antonio's mouth, his kisses, and his gentle-as-a-lover touches.<p>

They hadn't had sex. It was something of a record, actually; these past four years, Arthur had never _not_ slept with someone who caught his fancy. Probably because he wasn't prone to falling in love (lust?) with random people on the street, but instead tended toward people within what he thought of as "the ring" — the exclusive circle that encompassed his clients and others that he interacted with on a regular basis. People who knew that he was a prostitute and either exploited it or didn't care.

Antonio came around quite often these days, sometimes with Francis, but more often by himself. Gilbert, to Arthur's surprise, didn't seem to mind his constant presence. If anything, he encouraged it.

"He knows what he's doin'," he slurred once to Arthur, after stumbling back to the apartment with an equally drunk Antonio and collapsing on the couch. "He's his own brand of sexy — knows exactly when to beg and when to be fluffy and shit. Pulls all the right strings. A lover-boy type." He snorted. "But still sexy as hell. He'll teach ya how to do it right."

It had been a strange experience listening to Gilbert talk about Antonio while the person in question had his arms around Arthur from behind, hands straying everywhere, mouth and tongue trailing up the side of Arthur's neck to suckle briefly at his piercings before moving to the hollow behind Arthur's ear. Maybe these past years of being a prostitute really had turned Arthur into an easy lay, because if Antonio had ever been as demanding as Gilbert, as persuasive as Francis, Arthur would have spread his legs for him in a heartbeat. But that didn't appear to be Antonio's goal; he was — impossibly, it seemed — more interested in making _Arthur_ feel good.

Like a certain blond-haired boy Arthur hadn't seen in more than two weeks.

But then Antonio would do something so distinctly _him_, like change the bandages on Arthur's healing hands or touch him in the right place or kiss him into breathlessness, and Arthur would forget that he was already in love with someone else, that there used to be a _before_ that had been pushed away to make room for _now_. Alfred Jones had, for all purposes, stopped existing.

Even so, in between his snatches with Antonio, Arthur wondered where those blue eyes, those large, clumsy hands, had gone. Where was he, the adorably awkward and charming boy that used to see him once a week? The one who promised to prove to Arthur that he was worth something — the one who wanted to be his friend?

Every shred of news that Gilbert brought home seemed to address everybody and everything — except the one person Arthur wanted more information about. Francis wasn't going to be hiring Arthur anymore because he'd found a new girl to promise forever to (Arthur knew he'd be back within the month, minus the girlfriend and just as blasé and horny as before). And, surprisingly, Ludwig had given up Arthur's services as well, even though it'd been over a month since Arthur had last seen him. According to Gilbert, it appeared that "Feli finally put out, and Luddy's never been one to cheat, anyway. We're kinda lucky to have had him for as long as we did."

In total, that was two clients lost (rather, _one_ client lost for sure; Francis, on the other hand, was on a sort of hiatus, and it was almost a guarantee that he'd come around again). The old clients, the normal, everyday people that Arthur saw no significance in, remained consistent, a cohesive independent variable that balanced out the situation and maintained equilibrium. Kiku Honda never scheduled another session, and Ivan Braginski wasn't permitted to come anywhere near Arthur again, having successfully made Gilbert's blacklist with the damage he'd caused. And it was unlikely that the session with Mathias Køhler would be happening anytime soon — it'd turned out that Arthur had four fractured fingers, two on each hand. While they weren't too hard to fix (medical tape was all Arthur needed, to bind the injured fingers to the ones next to them so that they'd heal straight), full recovery took time. Valuable time.

It was a good thing that they had Antonio to help tide things over, which Gilbert never failed to point out to Arthur at every chance he got. Inwardly, Arthur doubted Antonio was only meant to "tide things over"; he still felt unpleasantly cornered by the unspoken (but disturbingly real) word "replacement." Already, Gilbert was taking great pride in the fact that, in addition to the new customers Antonio attracted, most of Arthur's old ones were just as satisfied hiring Antonio as they'd been hiring Arthur. Antonio's star was rising; he was already a good whore in his own right. It wouldn't take long for him to overshadow Arthur, even though Arthur had been in the business for years before Antonio had even stepped onto the scene.

Arthur was finding it harder and harder to resent Antonio, however, even though he'd sworn to himself that he would hate him. Antonio's tender, agile fingers, warm lips, and honeyed voice were impossible to resist. It didn't help that Arthur's body wasn't trying to put a fight in the slightest, despite how regularly his thoughts needed to be soothed.

Antonio's "lessons" — prescribed by Gilbert — weren't doing much to _teach_ him anything, anyway. All they did was make Arthur lose his head like a horny teenager. In fact, it was happening right at that moment.

"Relax," Antonio whispered into Arthur's neck for perhaps the third time. He shifted under Arthur, minutely adjusting their positions to make Arthur's perch on his thighs more comfortable. One hand ran up Arthur's side, smoothing over the bare skin, while two of the fingers of the other continued their slow rhythm inside Arthur's ass.

Clinging to Antonio's back (while making sure to keep the stress off his injuries), Arthur clenched instinctively around him, breaths coming short and rapid. Somehow, whenever he was with Antonio, it felt like _he_ was the amateur, the newcomer with no experience under his belt. Antonio seemed to know his body and its reactions intuitively, at a level surpassing Arthur's own understanding and mastery of the male anatomy. _Is he like that with everyone?_ Arthur wondered. _Or just me?_

Antonio licked the edge of Arthur's jaw, followed it with a kiss. "Please, Arthur," he murmured, and pushed his fingers in with a little more persistence. Arthur melted when he felt light pressure against his prostate. Pleasure — faint and tightly wound up, but uncoiling faster by the second — spread through his limbs. He imagined sinking into a tub of warm water and letting it wash over his body; it was the closest he could come to describing the sensation that engulfed him.

"That's it . . . yes, just like that," said Antonio softly, encouragingly.

Another gentle prod to his prostate.

Arthur let out a soundless gasp as the spark settled somewhere near the base of his spine. What was Antonio doing? Why was he only . . . ? "Please," he heard himself say. "Please . . . put it in . . . I . . ."

There was a moment of silence. Antonio's fingers slowed down and stopped moving entirely, still tucked inside. He appeared to be lost in thought. Confused and frustrated, Arthur ground down into his lap, trying to recapture his attention, to tell him to continue with his work. They were both hard — that obviously wasn't the problem. So what was holding Antonio back? He'd slept with plenty of people already. Why would he consider Arthur to be any different?

Then, in a movement that was too graceful to be sudden, Antonio's hand curved around Arthur's cock, and Arthur choked.

"Wait — what are you . . . ? No . . . I want . . . inside . . ." He had started to rise to his knees, but the new stimulation made him buckle forward, forehead sliding down Antonio's warm sternum as the focus of his body centered between his legs. He disliked being touched there, like he always had; it made him feel so good — a surefire way to reduce him to a whimpering slut — but the shame that came with it was reflexive, almost too much to bear. "Ah," he breathed one last time, before the combined arousal of having his prostate rubbed and his dick stroked became too much and he came into Antonio's waiting hand.

Antonio helped him along through his orgasm with smooth, patient pulls, and lent himself as his support when Arthur finally fell against him, body lax with the afterglow.

Arthur's breathing evened out after half a minute, but he was far from asleep. His mind was whirring almost violently with his thoughts, blood pounding in his eardrums, coldness washing through him in an unpleasant ripple.

"Why," he started, before hesitating. _Do I want to know?_ "Why won't you sleep with me?" He pushed himself up to look Antonio in the eye, and Antonio held his gaze steadily for a moment before finally turning away to wipe his hand off with a tissue.

It was somewhat strange that someone as healthy (and sexually active) as Gilbert kept a box of tissues by his bed, but now that it was more of a convenience than an oddity, Arthur didn't think to question it. Gilbert himself wasn't around to forbid the use of his tissues; he was out on an errand, leaving Antonio in Arthur's care — or Arthur in Antonio's care, depending on how one looked at it. Gilbert's utter trust in Antonio so early in the game made something inside Arthur prickle; but then again, Antonio had yet to prove himself untrustworthy in any respect. His character radiated a mild-mannered steadfastness. It was hard not to feel safe around him. Conflicted thoughts translating into his hands, Arthur tightened his grip on Antonio's shoulders, then relented when his fingers stung in protest.

The brief change in Arthur's demeanor seemed to go unnoticed. There was something appeasing about Antonio's voice even though his answer to Arthur's question, when he gave it, wasn't really an answer at all. "Didn't it feel good?" he asked insouciantly, dropping the used tissue in the small wastebasket next to the nightstand.

"That's not the point . . ."

Antonio kissed him — not to cut off his words, not quite, but Arthur forgot what he was saying anyway as they made out. Kissing felt good, but compared to sex, it was a different sort of pleasure. Sex was hard, fast, numb, an abyss of the mind, a surrender of the body. But kissing was comfort, simple intimacy, a way of knowing that he wasn't alone; it was solid confirmation that he wasn't the only living, breathing person in his dead little world . . . and, at the moment, it was his only grasp on reality. Arthur was getting better at it — not just at the physical motions, the lips on lips and tongue on tongue part of it, but also at using it to come back to himself. To pull himself out of the nameless guilt that accompanied sex and just remember who he was, given that he didn't think too hard about it.

When they parted, Arthur felt calmer, more reasonable. But that didn't stop him from asking again, one more time: "Why?"

It took a minute, but Antonio finally said, very gently, "I don't have what you want from me, _querido_."

Arthur had no idea what he was talking about. Yet, at the same time, some part of him did, and then it was like being back on square one, the beginning of a new revolution in the vicious cycle. Like he'd never moved in the first place.


	22. Twenty two

**-x-x-x-**

* * *

><p><strong>Twenty-two<strong>

* * *

><p>Arthur had never really liked snow. Or winter. But when the first white flakes came drifting down from the gray sky, delicate as a kitten's fur, Antonio insisted on forgoing their usual messing around in bed to take a walk around the city. "Before it all turns to mush," he said, eyes glowing in anticipation. Before Arthur knew it, they'd bundled themselves up in coats, gloves, scarves, and earmuffs and were standing out on the frost-covered sidewalk in front of the apartment, waiting for the light to change so they could cross the road.<p>

Arthur almost wished that Gilbert was there to interfere. But the albino was absent again, having vanished to pursue his own interests after not-so-subtly designating Antonio as Arthur's companion/caretaker.

He reached up to tuck the scarf more snugly around his mouth and nose, his hands stiff inside the gloves (his fingers were getting a lot better, but they still hurt if he wasn't careful). It was bitingly cold, as it was wont to get in New England, and all he could think of was the nice, warm bed back at the apartment and Antonio's body heat — unrestrained by clothes — against his own, lips and hands hot on his skin. Even as he tried to replay their last little tryst in his head, he could have sworn ice crystals were forming on his eyelashes.

"Where are we going?" he asked, voice muffled by the scarf.

"Angelíque's," Antonio responded. Arthur furrowed his eyebrows, but made no protest. Angelíque's Coffee Shop was a cozy little café about four blocks away, popular for its minty hot chocolate and the occasional latte art. Arthur had often walked past it on his meandering excursions around the city. Once or twice, he'd been treated to some coffee and a pastry by Elizaveta when they'd happened to cross paths on a winter day like this one, but Arthur never went in by himself for the same reasons he stopped going to the library.

The walk there took away most of the feeling in Arthur's toes, and he was reluctantly grateful for the sugary, coffee-scented warmth inside the café.

Antonio steered him toward a table for two by the window before asking, "Coffee or hot chocolate?"

Too much sugar made Arthur jittery, so hot chocolate was out of the question. He didn't really have anything against coffee, but . . . "Do they have tea?"

"I think so. I'll get you some. Anything to eat?"

Arthur shook his head. "Just tea is fine."

Watching Antonio go place the order and get something for himself, it suddenly struck him that they were on a date. _It's ironic_, Arthur thought wryly, taking off his earmuffs and gloves and unwinding his scarf. _That my first kiss and my first real date should go to someone who cares enough not to have mindless sex with me, but at the same time can't love me . . . it fits my life perfectly, doesn't it?_

He took his coat off and arranged it on the back of his chair, then propped his head up on his hands and gazed out at the snowflakes falling to the ground in a thicker and thicker flurry. He thought idly that if they stayed out for too long, they might get snowed out of the apartment, and then Gilbert wouldn't be pleased at all. But the gathering snowstorm might trap _Gilbert_ wherever he was now, and then it wouldn't matter, would it?

Feeling someone's eyes on him and thinking that perhaps Antonio needed some assistance bringing their stuff over, Arthur turned his head and, by some extraordinary coincidence, found himself looking right at Alfred Jones.

It took Arthur's brain a few seconds to kick in. When it did, he nearly tipped his chair over in shock.

What the hell was _Alfred_ doing here?

Alfred looked, if it was possible, even more surprised. His eyes were wide behind his glasses, and his mouth was slightly open — not like he wanted to say something, but like Arthur was the last person he'd expected to see at Angelíque's. The two of them stared at each other across the ten feet of tables, chairs, patrons, and space separating them, and it was strange — because Arthur hadn't thought it could actually happen in real life — but in those few seconds, it really did feel like the rest of the world had stopped existing and left behind only him and Alfred, and he could feel nothing but the heavy thudding of his heart behind his eyes and in his fingertips.

Arthur couldn't even begin to describe the tumble of emotions in his chest, and the same could be said for Alfred, if the slew of expressions flickering across his face at a mile a minute was anything to go by. He didn't know how long they would have continued gaping at each other if one of Alfred's companions (why hadn't Arthur noticed them before? Why hadn't he noticed _Alfred_ earlier?) hadn't brought the real world crashing back in.

"Arthur! Is that you?" exclaimed Feliciano. Arthur didn't get the chance to answer (or question how Feliciano and Alfred ended up at the same table, though they obviously knew each other and were most likely friends) — instead, he watched, frozen, as the young Italian man grabbed his date — Ludwig? — by the wrist and tugged him over to the table next to Arthur's. This prompted Alfred to move, too, out of automatic obligation, picking up his drink and dropping down in his new seat with a rather dazed look, his eyes never leaving Arthur. Their old table had been in the corner, and at the angle Arthur was sitting at, he had only been able to see Alfred and Feliciano. But as Ludwig came into view, so did the person sitting next to Alfred: a petite Asian girl with long, dark hair. _She must be the girlfriend he was talking about_, Arthur thought, feeling surprisingly calm and . . . accepting.

The mini-migration took place in less than ten seconds. When everyone had settled down, Feliciano was right next to Arthur, while Alfred was across from Feliciano — close enough to touch, if Arthur dared to reach out and do it. Their respective dates — because that was what it was, Arthur realized, a double date — sat at their sides, the Asian girl glancing curiously between Feliciano and Arthur while Ludwig stared down at his cup of coffee as if it contained the answers to the universe.

Well, it was certainly awkward. _Two of my clients, and their respective partners. And I have to act like I don't know Alfred._ Arthur wondered how well they all knew one another. Probably not to the extent of revealing dark, dirty secrets like cheating and hiring male prostitutes, he concluded.

Apparently oblivious to the slight strain in the atmosphere, Feliciano glowed as he chattered away. "I haven't seen you in so long! How've you been? Oh, you got earrings! They look nice on you . . . you got them after we saw each other last, right? I think the last time we hung out together was at Feliks's party near the end of summer — that was way back in August, wasn't it? Gosh, it feels like forever ago." The curl of hair on the side of his head bounced, and Feliciano reached up to tuck it behind his ear.

Arthur remembered that party. He hadn't known half the people there, but after six or seven martinis, it hadn't mattered so much. It stood out fuzzily in his mind as the time he'd given Gilbert a drunken blowjob in a stranger's bathroom, then let himself be fucked doggy-style against the mirror above the sink. He couldn't recall much afterward, except the splitting headache he'd had the next morning after waking up on Feliks's front porch with Feliks's boyfriend. "Ah. Yes, it does."

Alfred was still staring. Their sessions together — Arthur on his back, his knees, his side, a whole blur of positions and carpeting and bedspreads and accusations and promises and sex — flashed through Arthur's head with particular vividness. He tore his gaze away from Alfred to glance at the girl at his side, and out of nowhere, he felt a little hiccup of laughter catch in his throat. He quickly turned it into a cough, his hand coming up on its own to cover his mouth. Alfred's eyes immediately flew to Arthur's taped fingers, the imprints from the makeshift splints that had been taken off that morning. Something came over his face for a moment, but he controlled it; a ripple, and it was gone, replaced by a set jaw and a brighter flare of intensity in those blue eyes.

_Why aren't you coming back to see me anymore?_ Arthur asked him silently, recovering from his momentary lapse. Again, he looked at the girl. _Is it because of her? Have you changed your mind . . . ?_

Feliciano seemed to have noticed Arthur's injuries as well. "Oh, no! What happened to your hands, Arthur?"

"I . . . I caught them in a door. It's fine — they don't hurt that much." The old cycle of questions — _what really happened? What did Ivan Braginski do to me? Why can't I remember, even now?_ — resurfaced, but Arthur did his best to ignore it.

Feliciano fussed over him for a bit longer, then finally got around to the introductions. "Oh, I'm being impolite, aren't I? I'm so sorry, I got distracted. Anyway . . . this is Alfred. He's a sophomore at my college. Alfred, this is Arthur — Lud's brother's boyfriend."

A snort escaped before Arthur could stop it. _Is that what everybody thinks?_ he thought with bitter amusement. _That I'm Gilbert's boyfriend? That we're _lovers_? Well, I'll be damned . . ._ "Actually, we're not quite . . . boyfriends," he explained hastily. "We're roommates. We've just known each other for a long time, that's all."

"Oh." Feliciano looked slightly crestfallen. "I thought . . . Gil always says . . ."

Arthur brushed it off. "He doesn't really mean it."

An awkward pause. Then Alfred broke the silence. "Hey, nice to meet you," he said to Arthur. His lighthearted tone was a direct contrast to the heavy looks he'd been giving Arthur earlier. Just hearing his voice after two weeks of nothing made something in Arthur thrill. "Like Feli said, I'm Alfred. This . . ." He turned to the girl. "This is my girlfriend, Vanessa."

Vanessa peeped a "Hello." She was nothing like Arthur had imagined she would be, but she was still above-average pretty. Chocolate almond eyes, heart-shaped face, pearly complexion, a small birthmark at the corner of one eye. Was she Chinese? It seemed like it, though Arthur couldn't claim to be an expert at distinguishing between the subtleties in race.

She wasn't quite the epitome of femininity that Arthur had, for some reason, expected. She was small in stature, yes, but her body didn't seem to have the delicate softness of girls who only cared about looking pretty. Perhaps it was the way she held herself (ankles crossed confidently, back straight) or the way she dressed (sensible jeans, sneakers, long-sleeved V-neck), but Arthur got the distinct impression that she wasn't the type to sit around idly if given the option to _do_ something, like play tennis or go swimming.

_In that respect, I suppose she's a lot like Alfred, with boundless amounts of energy and good humor._

She was holding hands with Alfred under the table, her tiny fingers curved around his larger ones. A ring glittered on her hand. Arthur looked away, and forced himself not to wonder if the ring was a gift from Alfred. He knew he was being absolutely ridiculous at this point, but there was really nothing he could do anymore, and he hated it.

"Do you know each other?" asked Vanessa, sounding mildly confused, looking between Alfred and Arthur. Arthur realized that they'd been eying each other for too long again, and dropped his gaze.

"We've . . . I think we've passed each other once or twice on the streets," Alfred said. Still blithe, but Arthur could hear a bit of strain beginning to creep into his voice. No one else seemed to notice, not even Vanessa, who accepted his answer with a nod.

Arthur said, "Yes, that's it. I thought you looked familiar."

The way Vanessa looked at Alfred . . . it caused a painful twinge in Arthur's chest. She wasn't being sappy or anything, but the way her face softened, the way the corners of her mouth lifted up just a little . . . with trust written so openly in her features . . .

"Arthur? We have to go."

Arthur jerked. "What?" He turned to see Antonio standing behind him, balancing a lidded cup in each hand. _Antonio . . . I almost forgot about him. What took him so long?_

There was a serious look on Antonio's handsome face. "Gil called," he said, and Arthur understood that that meant they had to go back to the apartment_ now_. He began to pull on his coat, his gloves, everything, his fingers rigid but functional.

"I have to go now. It was nice seeing you again," he said to Feliciano and Ludwig, and stood up. Antonio passed him one of the cups — it was very warm, and Arthur appreciated it, cradling it between his hands. He added, "It was nice to meet you," to Alfred and Vanessa as politely as he could, not letting his eyes linger on Alfred any longer than necessary.

"Come, _querido_," Antonio said, his arm sliding around Arthur's waist. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to Arthur's mouth, then began to guide him toward the door.

Distracted as he was by the thought of Gilbert's summons, Arthur wouldn't have minded that much if he hadn't remembered that Alfred was still watching.

A glance over his shoulder told him that Alfred hadn't expected or liked what he'd seen at all. His face was an open book to Arthur for the first time today, his expression betraying deep, genuine hurt, as if Arthur had driven something cold and sharp under his ribcage. Upon seeing him, Arthur felt distress well up — how could he make Alfred look like that? What had he done? — but Antonio had already steered him out of the coffee shop. There was time for one last look back, long enough to see, through the window, Vanessa press forward and the shape of her lips murmuring something worriedly to Alfred, probably asking if he was all right, and Alfred staying motionless, as if he hadn't heard her. Then a tumult of falling snow obscured the shop from view as Arthur's feet took him farther and farther away, as he stepped into the maw of the blizzard with Antonio's arm still secure around his waist.

When he closed his eyes against the storm and the wind whipping his cheeks into numbness, all he could see was Alfred's shocked face, over and over, like an infinite reel. It made no sense to him, even as he searched for an explanation. Alfred didn't feel the same way that Arthur himself felt, did he? No, he had no reason to. It was impossible; a fantasy, at best. How could Alfred fall in love with _Arthur_, of all people — a whore with no future and nothing to give but his own worthless body — when he had the whole world stretched out before him? And yet the way he'd looked, when he saw that kiss . . . the pain that showed in his face . . .

_Do I dare hope . . . ?_ _Or will it amount to nothing, just like everything else?_

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><p><strong>AN: I am so, so sorry for not replying to any reviews last chapter - I've been incredibly busy with real life (yeah, it exists, unfortunately). But I did read each and every review. I hope this chapter answers some of your questions (and leaves you with about twenty more, lol).**

**I think I made it pretty clear, but just in case: Vanessa is not an OC.**


	23. Twenty three

**-x-x-x-**

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><p><strong>Twenty-three<strong>

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><p>A couple of days later, Gilbert was in the bathroom, nursing another hangover, while Arthur sat on his bed and wondered how much alcohol a person had to drink before his liver finally stopped working entirely.<p>

He wondered if Gilbert's time was almost up, and if there was anything he could do to help him along.

_No, Arthur. Stop it._ What was he thinking? Where would he be without Gilbert? Lying in some godforsaken ditch in a back alley, that was where. Arthur shook his head to clear his thoughts and searched for something else for focus on. Unfortunately, the new topic his brain chose to explore next was the incident at the café.

It was still sickeningly vivid in his mind. The awkwardness, the unspoken feelings, Alfred's anguished face. Alfred's fingers, entwined with Vanessa's, under the table. The fact that they had looked like a normal couple, quietly enjoying their relationship — even though Alfred had told Arthur he'd break up with her over two weeks ago because he was gay and couldn't truly love her.

_Was he lying?_ Arthur thought. _Or is he actually bisexual, and only recently figured it out? He made it _sound_ like he only preferred men, but perhaps he'd realized that that wasn't the case, and decided he wanted to keep Vanessa._

_ He'd said it was seeing me that had helped him make his "final decision" . . . but it seems like that wasn't true. At all._

But Alfred's expression when he watched Arthur get kissed by Antonio . . .

New understanding dawning on him, Arthur mused, _Perhaps he wants us both. Me _and_ Vanessa._ The thought was unpleasant, a bitter, cloying taste on his tongue, but he knew it was Alfred's choice. And who was he to tell him what was and wasn't right, what to do and what not to do (though he wanted to so badly, so unfairly)?

It made sense. In the end, it seemed that Arthur was there only to satisfy Alfred's physical needs, while Vanessa had the privilege of being Alfred's emotional bond.

_But he said he was gay! And he said he wanted to be friends!_

This endless, circular argument with himself was getting nowhere. All it did was feed the headache building at the base of his skull. He rubbed his forehead with two fingers, trying to smooth out the crease between his brows.

Maybe it was time to just drop the whole thing — the whole deal with Alfred — and go back to being what he was before: an obedient, colorless prostitute offering his services in the form of no-strings-attached sex. Hold any future sessions to a strictly impersonal level. Give his body (and nothing else) in exchange for payment. He didn't _really _need Alfred, didn't need to tear his hair or his heart out over him; he'd survived twenty-three years without him, hadn't he?

_That's only because you didn't know what you were missing out on. Now that you know what it's like to have him . . . it's become an addiction. Too late to turn back._

Arthur told himself rather vehemently to shut up and went to go check on Gilbert, just to have something to do. He honestly felt that if he kept wallowing in his thoughts for any longer, he would drive himself crazy, and that would be truly pathetic.

It was silent in the bathroom. Arthur nudged the door open, and found the albino slumped against the wall with his arm hooked over the edge of the bathtub for support, his lanky legs splayed out over the tiles. His eyes — usually shrewd and glittering crimson — were shut, and the hollows beneath them were more pronounced than usual. He looked as if he hadn't slept in months.

Arthur had stopped trying to count the number of hangovers Gilbert brought on himself during any given week. But it seemed like this one was particularly rough, even by Gilbert's standards.

Apparently sensing Arthur's presence, Gilbert cracked an eye open. "What?" he croaked.

"Nothing."

"Then fuck off." All bark, no bite. But Arthur left him alone anyway, knowing that if he bothered him now, he would pay the price for it later.

He went back into his room. Once Gilbert surfaced from his hangover-induced stupor, he would be in a foul mood and raring to find the closest person to take it out on — namely, Arthur. No broken bones had come out of these encounters yet, but Arthur wasn't about to test his luck. He began to change into street clothes and prepared to leave the apartment, trying to draw up a mental list of what he would do while out. He would have to stay away long enough for Gilbert to cool down; sometimes that took half a day, sometimes even more, and while it was easy to kill time by walking around the city, it was deathly cold out. Gilbert would never forgive him if he went and made himself sick right when his fingers were almost completely healed.

In the middle of buttoning his shirt, he remembered.

Elizaveta had told him she would do a tattoo for him for free, hadn't she? With everything that had been happening in the past month, Arthur hadn't had the chance to contact her since he'd gotten his ear pierced — perhaps he could drop by her tattoo parlor and see if her offer still held, and if it did and she wasn't too busy, he could ask her to do it for him today. The walk there — typically half an hour, forty minutes at the most — was definitely doable. The winter wind wouldn't matter as much as long as he had a destination.

It was settled, then. He was going to see Elizaveta. Hopefully, Gilbert wouldn't tear him to pieces once he came back with a freshly done tattoo, dark ink joining the collection of silvery scars on his body.

Then again, Gilbert wasn't exactly the most tolerant person he knew.

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><p><strong>AN: Another transition chapter. Thanks for all the support concerning my missing flash drive - it still hasn't been found, but . . . I'll live. TCOA's back in the game for the time being. XD**

**(I find it somewhat amusing that over thirty of you commented on the flash drive fiasco, and yet I only get about a third of that number of reviews per chapter for the actual story . . . ^^")**

**_ASK BLOG for TCOA_: asktcoa . tumblr . com (please check it out if you haven't already! I've just recently reformatted it to make it look more awesome, and I'm now waiting for you guys to ask more questions!)**


	24. Twenty four

**-x-x-x-**

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><p><strong>Twenty-four<strong>

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><p>The crunch of snow underfoot and the frigid air were doing things to Arthur's thoughts. It couldn't be healthy, the way his intended destination demurred to the back of his mind to make way for things of lesser importance, things that were abstract and sharp-edged and irrepressible. He could hardly focus on where he was going; the inside of his head had turned into a jerky, blurry slideshow that flooded the blackness behind his eyelids with color.<p>

This city held too many memories for comfort. Memories that welled up like tears, as cloying and unwelcome as poison. Memories that told his story the way he didn't want to remember it being told.

It happened fast, a quick exchange followed by a quick fuck — the first one of his life. Or maybe it had all just felt fast because Arthur had been counting the days for so long that he'd lost his sense of time. At first, Arthur didn't even grasp what was going on. Only a handful of minutes had passed since the gangly stranger with the pale hair and blood-red eyes had stepped into the alley and demanded his attention. "Vampire" had been Arthur's first impression of him. He would later find out that that assessment of Gilbert hadn't been so off the mark, after all. Looking back, it was obvious that hunger and exposure had taken their toll not only on his body, but also on his mind. He was near-delusional . . . half-dead with it. Why else would he had agreed to what Gilbert had offered him?

_ "Hey. You. You got any place to go?"_

_ Arthur shook his head mutely. He didn't know if Gilbert had been watching him the whole time, or if it was obvious even to a complete stranger that he was a lost soul vulnerable to help._

_ "Family? Home? Job? You still in school?"_

_ Another shake._

_ Gilbert looked satisfied. "Good. Then . . ." He came closer, cornered him. Arthur tried weakly to back away, but his shoulder hit hard brick wall. Gilbert was blocking his only way out. ". . . Show me what you can do, will ya? With this." A rapid unbutton and unzip, and he pulled his dick out and shoved it in Arthur's face._

_ "Wh-what? Why?" Arthur stared, trembling. Beads of sweat formed on his palms and ice lanced through his insides despite the sickening July heat. He could smell the muskiness of Gilbert's pubic hair, could see the bulbous tip of his penis and every pale vein and dark pink fold of skin. He'd never seen another . . . so up close. Never. No one had ever — so how could this man — how could he let him —_

_ "You prove your worth, and I'll get ya a job and a place to live," Gilbert snapped. "Now suck it."_

_ Just the thought of having something so disgusting in his mouth made Arthur's stomach turn over. But desperation caught him in a vise grip; he squeezed his eyes shut and allowed his will to yank his head forward on puppet strings, and before he could piece together the way one thing led to another, Gilbert had him pressed against the wall with his tattered pants and underwear around his knees and was shoving himself _inside_, into Arthur's body. Over and over and over. It felt awful, but it was the first time that Arthur just grit his teeth and bore it._

_ Strange how it worked out, but after that rough, pleasureless tryst in the alley and Gilbert took him back to his apartment and introduced him to his new life, Arthur fell in love with him._

_ More than that — he felt loved. When Gilbert told him what to do and taught him how to do it, he felt cared for. When Gilbert devoted all of his time to training him, Arthur felt important. Significant, worthy. He didn't mind that they had sex every night, that it still hurt and made him feel nothing but sore afterwards; he didn't mind that Gilbert controlled everything he did, down to what kind of shampoo he used and what he ate (though it was rare that Arthur was be able to eat anything and keep it down long enough for it to be any good to him). He didn't mind that Gilbert's touch was more harsh than loving, or that he was never kissed or held even while they slept together, or that he was regularly sent out to entertain other men with his body in exchange for money while Gilbert micromanaged the details in the background. That was just part of the contract. Deep down, Arthur believed that it was only business . . . that it didn't matter, because Gilbert loved him. _

_Gilbert was his caretaker, his companion, his protector, his partner. Arthur had gone from being homeless and desolate to sharing an apartment and an exclusive lifestyle with him. It was a miraculous change as much as it was hard work. But it was work that he was earning his keep with, work that he was glad to do if it meant he could continue living the way he was living and never go back to the past. In short, he couldn't have been happier._

_Then Gilbert brought the concept of pain — and BDSM — into their bedroom._

_At first, Arthur barely noticed. He had learned over the weeks that Gilbert had an exceptional fondness for biting, and he was used to glancing in the mirror and seeing bruise-like hickeys dotting his body. And the first time that Gilbert's teeth broke the skin, Arthur merely chalked it up to an accident and assumed he would be more careful from then on._

_But Gilbert never apologized for it. Not when it happened for the fifth time, or when blood began to well up in the bite marks on a regular basis. Arthur couldn't bring himself to say anything about it. He just watched the wounds heal into scars in the mirror, and tried to dispel the uneasy feeling in his chest._

_Things progressed that way. Without a word of warning, Gilbert would introduce something new — restraints, cock rings, whips — and Arthur would simply just go along. All of it hurt, and all of it made Arthur feel sick inside, but he didn't dare question Gilbert. Soon, it was all he knew. It became normalcy. Something to expect, something to hold on to, something to rely on._

_Over time, he grew hardened to it; the sharp point of the knife Gilbert used to trace slits on his body barely set his nerves on edge. And under Gilbert's cruel hands and Gilbert's merciless instruction, Arthur's body began to take pleasure from the abuse._

_It terrified Arthur. He secretly despised it — how easily Gilbert could make him come, how he could draw forth an orgasm merely by digging the hot metal tip of a lighter into the seam of his thigh, or by choking him into half-consciousness with his iron fingers. But in the heat of the moment, when his body was screaming at him for more and more and more, it was hard to get his thoughts straight. It wasn't long before he found a use for pain that neutralized the trauma it caused him: it could blot out the things he didn't want to think about. Arthur began to depend on that newfound usage like a drug. He went from tentative to careless to downright self-injurious in his masturbation; he let sex and pain shut out his surroundings. He relied on them to wash reality away._

_He wasn't sure at what point his love turned into fear and submission and pain-fueled lust. Perhaps it was the first time Gilbert hit him. Perhaps it was the third night in a row when Gilbert stumbled home, drunk, and ignored Arthur entirely. Perhaps it was when the extent of their interaction shrank down to fucking and transportation to hotels._

_But most likely, it was when Arthur finally realized that he was nothing but a tool in Gilbert's eyes — that in the end, he really was as worthless as he had thought himself to be. What had he done to become like that? _

_He had handed the reins of his life over to someone else, someone who didn't care whether he was dead or alive so as long as he performed his job._

_He had possessed no sexual history until the day he lost his virginity to Gilbert — and from then on, he had allowed his life to revolve around sex, and he had nothing left to give, nothing left to be taken._

_He had, essentially, killed his own future and sealed his own fate._

_At least Arthur had learned one more indirect lesson from Gilbert somewhere down the line, the most important lesson of his life: he could retreat into himself to get through the worst of it, as often as he wanted. He could use pain as a shield. He no longer had to worry about anyone hurting him; his own helplessness and hopelessness were no longer any cause for concern. His body and what was left of his character could be torn to shreds, and he would still be safe, because he had the inside of his mind to protect him, and painful pleasure to distract him._

_In the end, he was confronted with only one decision: to fight for himself, or — if he truly wanted it — to get out. _

_He chose to stay and disappear._

_And before he knew it, it was far too late to turn back the clock._

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><p><strong>AN: Yes, I am alive. For those of you wondering what the point of this chapter is . . . honestly, it's more of a refresher than something that moves the story forward. Thought I should remind you guys of what's going on in the story since it's been pretty long since my last update. ^^ (And writing it helps me get back into the flow of the story, too.)**

**Here's something I want to make clear before I upload future chapters: please try to refrain from making assumptions/jumping to conclusions in your reviews. Every time a review with assumptions pops up, I get deluged by indignant/shocked/demanding PMs from readers that are like "WTF WHY? WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT? CHANGE IT RIGHT NOW!" It gets tiring after a while. It's my story and I say how it goes, okay? If you don't like it, you can bail whenever you want. Please act mature about it; first grade was a long time ago for most of us.**

**Updates will most likely be irregular, since I'm currently juggling school, college apps, college essays, and volunteer work, but I won't forget about this story. I promise. Hope you'll keep sticking with me!**


	25. Twenty five

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><p><strong>Twenty-five<strong>

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><p>Having a tattoo done didn't actually hurt as much as Arthur had expected it to. His skin had been buzzing with anticipation when he sat down on the backless chair after removing his shirt, waiting for the pain to come and shoot through his nerves. After Elizaveta finished stenciling the design on his bare skin, snapped on some latex gloves, and instructed him to rest his elbows on his knees, he had expected a sharp, lancing sensation to accompany the needle as it entered his skin. He'd thought it would hurt the way it did when Gilbert wielded a paintbrush-thin knife and used his body as a canvas.<p>

But it didn't. Well, not quite. It still _hurt_, but it was more of an irritation — a kind of insistent, shallow probing — than actual pain. The rubbing alcohol that Elizaveta had swabbed on his skin prior to starting had cooled, raising goosebumps along his arms, and now it provided a direct contrast to the hot, scratchy feeling that spread across his back as Elizaveta worked on darkening the outline.

She made casual small talk with him as the minutes trickled past, describing what she was doing and inquiring about his life, pausing every now and then to gently dab away the minute droplets of blood that welled up. Arthur tried to be as coherent and vague as he could in his responses. It was easier in the beginning, when the endorphins had just kicked in and were partially numbing him, but once forty-five or so minutes had gone by, he began to understand Elizaveta's warning from when she had first given him the consent forms. It really wasn't that bad, not in the beginning, but he realized that that was an underestimation. The "pain" from the tattooing was bearable during the first half-hour or so; but as time went on, the discomfort layered upon itself as his skin became more sensitive. Staying still for so long also played havoc on his muscles — first his shoulders, and then his arms, began to ache. Finally, the back of his neck joined in. Arthur was mentally preparing himself for a long period of endurance when Elizaveta sat back and laid her instruments aside.

"Okay, it's time for a break," she said. "You can stand up and stretch, but don't touch your left shoulder blade or your back, or you'll be risking infection. Then you'll really be in for a world of pain." Arthur got up obediently and rolled his shoulders, wincing a bit when the bones in his neck crackled. The site of the tattoo twinged in complaint, but he quietly relished it; he'd gone against Gilbert's will and gotten a tattoo, something that he never would have done a year ago. What had emboldened him to be so reckless and defiant?

Whatever it was, whoever it was, Arthur had no regrets.

_At least, I won't until Gilbert finds out. Then I'll probably be sorry for it. But for now, my body is my own and my decision is my own, and I have no reason to bemoan either, _he thought, determined not to let the silent concerns circling his mind get to him.

Elizaveta was flexing her hands and shaking out her wrists. She looked up, and seemed to notice the expression on Arthur's face. "Something bothering you, Arthur?"

Arthur hesitated. It would be so simple to just say it: _Gilbert might injure me for disobeying him_. But for obvious reasons, he couldn't. For one, the thought of anyone knowing about the way Gilbert treated him made him feel small and sick. And even though Elizaveta was already aware the Gilbert was no saint, Arthur didn't want to be the one to ruin their long-standing friendship. Gilbert and Elizaveta were older — if only by a few years — and they shared a history that was beyond him. He respected that, even though he didn't respect Gilbert.

All things considered, Arthur was sure Elizaveta would be a lot better off without his situation troubling her.

"It's nothing."

Elizaveta looked searchingly at him for a moment. Arthur kept his gaze directed downward, at the floor. The silence seemed to fill up the room with its vastness and implications.

"Actually . . ." Arthur raised his head at the change in Elizaveta's voice. "There's something you need to know. There's something I need to tell you." Elizaveta's face was solemn, her eyes bright and determined and a bit distressed, but Arthur somehow felt that he wasn't the cause of it — at least, not directly. "First of all, I want to apologize. I've been — I was — so irresponsible; it's a mistake that I will never forgive myself for. It kills me that I allowed it to happen, especially now that it's irreversible. But I'm not looking for excuses for myself. I'm sorry, Arthur."

Arthur just stared at her as he absorbed her words. "What . . . do you mean?" he asked, confused. "What are you talking about?" _Do you mean . . . have you finally . . . figured out what Gilbert is doing to me? And you want to apologize for not doing anything about it, for not trying to help me?_

Elizaveta visibly steeled herself and met his eyes, her gaze honest. "I don't know how else to put this except bluntly. I don't want _him_" — they both knew who she was referring to — "to know. You can hate me for telling you all you want — you can hate me for letting it happen in the first place. I won't hold it against you in any way, because it's solely my own fault and my own responsibility. I swear that I won't ever let it interfere with your life. I just wanted you to know because . . ." She hesitated for the first time, wavered for a second before regaining her bearings. "I wanted you to know because you have the right to know. The potential damage I've caused . . . will affect you the most, if anyone else, especially _him_, finds out about it."

_You want me to be prepared, just in case_, thought Arthur. He knew that was what she meant. _But for what? What are you trying to tell me?_ He had a growing feeling that it had less to do with his situation than he'd originally assumed. No, he was certain that that wasn't it. It was something else entirely, another wrench in the works. Ice began to claw its way back up his windpipe.

Elizaveta pressed her hands together, intertwined her fingers. "I'm five months pregnant. I'm sorry."

The words — they sounded well-worn, as if she'd been counting the days since the beginning — hung between them like thin crystal, waiting to drop to the floor and shatter, as Arthur tried to register them and decipher their meaning besides the obvious. He repeated them out loud, slowly, in an attempt to make understanding dawn faster. "You're . . . pregnant."

"Yes."

"You're five months pregnant."

"Yes." Elizaveta sounded patient and a little weary, but her tone had an iron backing. She didn't seem to expect him to forgive her, and it took something out of her vitality, but she was still proving her strength nonetheless. Unconsciously defending herself and her unborn baby.

Something in Arthur's mind settled as comprehension finally began to sink in. His eyes traveled south, to her abdomen, to where she had her arms folded rather protectively over her belly. Even so, he could see the unobtrusive swell of it through her long-sleeved, flowing top. He hadn't noticed it earlier. Or maybe he had, and just dismissed it as gained weight.

"Your child — it's Gilbert's."

"Yes." She looked down at her arms, her long fingers clasping her elbows, and said quietly, "It's a girl. She's his."

Arthur took this in. "How long . . . have you known?" he asked, not knowing if it mattered or not. _Wait. It does matter. If she had known since early on, before she was three months in . . . is that right? . . . she could have gotten an abortion. She _would_ have gotten an abortion. Wouldn't she?_

"I found out about two weeks ago. After you came in to have your ear pierced." Elizaveta seemed to read his mind. "It was already too late to do anything about it — my doctor told me I was too far along to go through with the procedure without risking my health."

Arthur couldn't blame her for that. He couldn't blame her for any of it, period. He knew how some things were beyond their control — he knew the way momentum worked. He just couldn't entirely understand _why_. Elizaveta and Gilbert — the way they interacted — the way she always deflected his advances, no matter how persistent he was — why did it happen?

"How —"

And she knew he wasn't asking about the technicalities. "It's the same old cliché," she said, and Arthur heard a trace of bitterness, a touch of irony, in her voice. "People do stupid things when they're drunk, no matter how seasoned they are and how much they're over their exes, and in the end, it only takes once for it to happen. Apparently, I'm no exception. I remember when it was: at Feliks's, during that overnight party. The one —"

"— over the summer. In August." _Mirror. Blowjob. Alcohol. Gilbert disappearing into the crowd, leaving me to whore myself out for free in my intoxicated state. Feliciano was there, with Ludwig in tow. He mentioned it at the café when Antonio and I ran into him and he was with Ludwig and with him were _—

Elizaveta was watching him, waiting for a definite reaction so she could respond and comfort and apologize again. Arthur composed his thoughts and said carefully, "It's fine, Elizaveta. I really don't mind. I was never . . . like _that_ . . . with Gilbert anyway. We weren't ever that close." Even though they had done dirty, unspeakable things with each other, they had never been anything together. Arthur acknowledged it with acceptance, more calmly than he'd thought he would. Because it was only the truth.

Expression sad, Elizaveta asked tentatively, "Is this something that you'll forgive me for, Arthur?" She had thought he would say no earlier, that much was clear, and now she didn't appear to know where they stood with each other. Even Arthur wasn't sure where they stood, in all honesty. But somehow it was up to him to patch things up.

"It wasn't your fault," Arthur said. It was what she needed to hear, and he meant it. He knew she would never intentionally harm him, not after all the good will she'd shown him over the past four years. Elizaveta wasn't that kind of person; she was one of the few who had shown him true kindness in a world unforgiving in its cruelty. He knew she meant well by telling him, and he knew she meant every word she'd said about never letting her child interfere with his life with Gilbert. He supposed that meant she was going to raise her daughter on her own.

He could envision the hardships that awaited her, but he was glad that she chose that path nonetheless, because no one deserved to have someone like Gilbert for a father.

"Thank you for letting me know. I won't tell him."

Elizaveta softened. "You don't know how much that means to me. Thank _you_, Arthur."

Just over an hour later, Arthur walked out of the tattoo parlor with his newly outlined tattoo hidden beneath his shirt. Elizaveta had instructed him to come back in a week or so for the shading, and had also given him directions on how to treat the tattoo in the meantime. His skin, reddened and puffy under the cotton, smarted as he walked with his cold hands in the warm pockets of his jacket. It had been well worth it.

Now he had two secrets to hide from Gilbert, though he wasn't sure how long the first one would remain thus.

As he headed back to the apartment through the snow streets, Arthur couldn't help but wonder, over and over, _What would it mean for me if Gilbert knew about Elizaveta? Would he choose her over me, and abandon me to support her? Or would he not care, and just continue to live the way he has been, bar-hopping and drinking himself into oblivion with Antonio and Francis and managing my clients?_

_ Either way, what would happen to me?_

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><p><strong>AN: I've been banging my head against a wall over this chapter for months, and now it's finally done. I wanted to get the emotions just right. I hope I succeeded.**

**Okay, I have a bit of a question for all of you. If you want to answer it, just include your response in your review somewhere.**

**Question: Which moments/incidents in _TCOA_ so far stand out the most prominently in your mind? A list is fine. XD**

**(And yes, I do realize that those of you who commented before about my flash drive are no longer able to review this chapter. ORZ I'm sorry. I'm an idiot. It works if you review as an anon - although I don't blame you if you won't bother logging out and stuff just to give me a review. I understand. ^^")**


	26. Twenty six

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><p><strong>Twenty-six<br>**

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><p>It had been so long since Gilbert had had the motivation to deliver real pain, pain that went beyond whips and the occasional slap or chokehold, that Arthur realized his body had actually started to forget how much it could be made to suffer. After everything he'd been through, he didn't think that that could even be possible. But it was.<p>

It wouldn't have hurt so much otherwise. In his wrath, Gilbert was tearing Arthur's old limits to shreds, ripping out the stitching that held them together with violent, reckless abandon and reopening four-year-old scars. He was beating Arthur back into shape, and Arthur was being forced to, once again, relearn his own place.

It had taken all of five minutes for Gilbert to discover the tattoo after Arthur returned. Hangover effectively taken care of, he'd wanted a quick fuck that afternoon, something extremely tame in comparison to his usual tastes. But once Gilbert had had Arthur on his front on the bed, shirt off, he'd frozen, taking in the sight of the tattoo with uncharacteristic silence. And then everything spiraled downward from there.

How could he have been so deliberately stupid, obstinate, unseeing? Why did he go ahead with his decision when he already knew Gilbert's inevitable reaction?

Had he thought someone would save him — or had he somehow assumed that knowing Elizaveta's secret would protect him by giving him one over Gilbert?

Had he done it because he needed the pain that only Gilbert could give him?

Arthur didn't want to think about it. He was sure that if he looked too hard, he would find the answer. And that would truly be his undoing, because he knew it was already too late.

This time, Gilbert hadn't bothered with a proper gag. Once he'd finished stripping Arthur of his clothes, he'd gotten out his stash of worn ropes, twisted two together into one braid, and tied that around the back of Arthur's head. Then he'd left the room after lashing Arthur's ankles to the bedposts and knotting his wrists behind his back. The bristles on the ropes in his mouth jabbed Arthur's tongue and sliced into his gums; he had to fight to keep his sudden burst of terror in check. Gilbert had never used the ropes on him like that — he'd always had more control. He'd always been mindful of the fact that Arthur couldn't entertain customers with a ruined mouth.

_Is he done with me?_ Arthur thought blindly. _Is he going to throw me out? Is he going to kill me?_

After a few minutes, Gilbert returned with an opaque plastic bag full with equipment, a discreet-looking black case, and an unmarked tube of something that resembled lubricant. His face was coldly furious as he deposited everything on the floor next to the bed. There was absolutely no doubt in Arthur's mind now that the big guns were being brought out — and he couldn't help but remember with sharp clarity that he was nothing if not expendable.

Because no one would miss a dead whore.

Arthur wanted to beg for mercy. Not because he thought it was something that Gilbert would want to hear, but because he truly needed it. He was terrified — more terrified than he'd been in a long, long time, his blood freezing in his veins, his breaths coming harsh and fast and stilted. He had spent the past four years consciously and subconsciously longing for an end, for death; he never truly understood how much the prospect of it chilled him to the core until that moment.

It was no longer a fancy, or a harmless point of speculation. It was no longer something he thought about to offer himself some sort of twisted comfort. It was no longer a faraway, dreamlike concept.

It was a very real, very concrete possibility. And it was entirely beyond his control.

Gilbert had connections. Gilbert would have planned ahead on how he would dispose of Arthur's body, and he would have received more than adequate help if he looked for it in the right places, from the right people. He would leave no evidence that would point to his guilt. He would know exactly what he was doing; Arthur's death would be nothing more than a insignificant setback to him. That said, he would take his time killing Arthur, savoring each snapping bone, each desperate shriek until he'd bent and broken and silenced Arthur forever. Then he'd clean up the mess, and —

Gilbert's hand on Arthur's throat wrenched him out of his thoughts. Arthur looked up, eyes wide, suddenly unable to breathe at all. Gilbert stared at him for a moment before his mouth twisted in disgust, and he drew back his hand, curled his fingers, and struck Arthur across the face. Hard. It wasn't so much a direct punch than a backhand blow with the side of his fist; the pain actually blinded Arthur in one eye for several seconds. When his vision came back, it was unbalanced and blurred. The choking feeling inside him mounted. He turned his head back to center, desperate to see the light, to confirm that the darkness wasn't permanent and that he was still holding on.

"You cunt." Gilbert struck him again. Arthur's head swam. It took longer for his sight to return this time, and when it did, warped spots dotted what little he saw. "You stupid fuckin' cunt. Keep your eyes _down_."

Arthur didn't make the mistake of looking at Gilbert again. He kept his face turned to the side, his gaze trained on the sheets, the innocuous edge of the bed. His cheekbone throbbed.

He heard the quiet plastic sound of a cap being unscrewed, but didn't dare look. He knew it was the tube he had seen Gilbert bring in; he didn't know what it contained, though. All of the bottles of lubricant Gilbert bought were usually marked clearly. This one had been thin, battered, and gray, more like a tube of ointment than anything else. Arthur had never seen Gilbert use it before.

Cold fingers crammed themselves between his legs, up inside him, stretching his opening to impossibly painful lengths. Arthur's thighs quivered, but he still had some control over himself, despite the fear. He could feel the gel-like substance on Gilbert's fingers smearing along his inner walls. It wasn't lube — it was greasier, thicker . . . hotter? Something inside him contracted at the sensation, and Arthur bit down on the ropes as he shook. What? What was Gilbert putting inside him?

Gilbert tugged his hand free and quickly wiped it with a tissue. Arthur caught his grimace out of the corner of his eye. Could it . . . ? Then he lost all capability of thought, because it began to _burn_.

It started mildly, almost numbly. Then it felt as if boiling water had been poured into his rectum — Arthur thrashed, yanking against his restraints, panicking, even though every movement only exacerbated the hot, swelling pain. A whimper broke free from him, muffled by the crude gag. He couldn't stay still. He could feel his internal temperature climbing. He didn't know if it was from the substance inside him or from the agony, but sweat began dampening his skin, and it continued to burn, continued to flare in intensity until tears leaked from his eyes and dripped into his hair.

"Please, please, make it stop," he tried to plead. Nothing got past the ropes in his mouth except another pathetic keen.

Gilbert ignored him. He was shaking the hand he'd been cleaning off like he'd been burned, muttering, "Ow, goddamn ginger-infused shit," under his breath. Arthur heard him, and managed to latch onto the word "ginger." Ginger . . .

He thought wildly, _Ginger burns. Ginger is an aphrodisiac. Just an aphrodisiac. That's all. _And he clung to the knowledge that ginger wouldn't cause any severe, lasting injury to his insides, however much it hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut. Bucked again when the pain came back in another wave.

He felt a hand on his semi-hard cock, fitting something onto him, around the base of his shaft, around each of his balls, suddenly pulled tight until the thin, sturdy straps of leather dug into his skin. It felt like one of Gilbert's more complex cock rings. The kind he hardly bothered with, because they usually took up more time than he was willing to waste to actually put on, but Arthur had worn them a handful of times over the years and was familiar with how they felt, how they chafed against him and made his privates feel warm and bulging and sickeningly over-sensitive.

He was still adjusting to the cock ring when a shock — almost electric — shot through his left nipple. Arthur's eyes popped open, and he almost turned his head before he caught himself at the last second. His right nipple experienced the same sudden pain a second later. Clamps.

His body now throbbed and stung and burned at three points, a masochistic triangle. He couldn't see. The tears were coming faster, but he wasn't sobbing or crying or even weeping . . . they were being forced out of him, involuntary, a mere side effect.

Very distantly, he heard the sound of latches clicking open. _Gilbert_, he thought dimly. _Opening the black case._ He didn't know what was in it, and he didn't care — he only wondered whether or not it would bring him more pain. But knowing Gilbert and knowing his own offense, Arthur had no doubt it would. He had no doubt it would be an elaborate, exquisite kind of torture.

In the back of his mind, he was faintly surprised that Gilbert hadn't tried to carve the tattoo off him yet. Was that what he was going to do now?

Gilbert's hand closed around his dick again. Though he barely felt it, Arthur shuddered; he was reeling, sick, nauseous on the endorphins that his body was no longer producing. But he was dragged out of his haze by the feeling of cold metal being pressed to the tip of his cock. Being pressed _into_ the tip of his cock, invading the fragile, private tissue —

Arthur really did scream then, a mangled sound that skinned his throat raw. It went unheard.

_What are you doing to my body?_

He was being stretched. He was being _stretched_. It hurt — _oh God please no _— the sensation drilling deep into his pelvis, heavy and unrelenting — _am I tearing no stop_ — as Gilbert slid the rod in, let gravity pull it down and sink it farther and farther in until — _no no what is he doing what is he _— there was no more room for it and Gilbert pulled his penis down, angled it, and suddenly the instrument continued its path inside without resistance — _NO STOP _— without any resistance at all — _PLEASE I'M BEGGING YOU STOP _— Gilbert's fingers around his neck again, cutting off his air, shutting him up even though he was barely making a sound —

He couldn't breathe, though his lungs tried to expand, tried to function. Eventually, his mind began to wind down and blacken, and the harsh twist in his stomach changed from panic to relief. The feel of Gilbert's hand fell away; the concentrated pain that was strung through him diffused, each point of anguish — his insides, his cock, his nipples, his wrists, his throat, his face — winking out like a tiny light until all of them had gone. Until the pain had retracted its claws from his flesh and finally let him go.

The last thing he heard was something like knocking . . . knocking on the door . . . _Too late_, was the last wraith-like thought that went through his head. Then he was lost in blissful, neutral darkness, where he no longer had anything to be afraid of.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Please, _please_ do not try sounding (inserting rods, catheters, dilators, or other objects into the urethra) at home unless you and your _consenting_ partner are both open and knowledgeable about the subject and understand the risks associated with it.**** That said, please do not try _any_ form of "deviant" sexual activity mentioned in this fic without all the necessary preparations and precautions.**

**By the way, if any of you are ever wondering what I'm up to or why I'm taking so long to update, just go to my profile - I usually post updates to the statuses of my WIP stories and my current personal status there, along with the date.  
><strong>


	27. Twenty seven

**-x-x-x-**

* * *

><p><strong>Twenty-seven<strong>

* * *

><p>It was so dark when Arthur woke that, for several seconds, he thought he was still gone, still lost somewhere inside his mind. Then he blinked and realized that no, that wasn't it. There just wasn't any light because it was nighttime.<p>

He blinked again, more slowly. The skin around his eyes felt puffy and tight. That was odd — was he just tired, or had he been crying? The inside of his mouth was dry and tasted like rust. An involuntary twitch ran through his fingers, and Arthur absently tried to lift his arm, just to see if it was still in one piece, but couldn't. He was puzzled until he realized that his hand was being cradled by someone else's on the side of the bed. Their hold was preventing him from pulling away.

He couldn't turn his head and look. His neck was stiff.

The air rasped painfully in the back of his raw throat.

Something next to him stirred; the hand wrapped around his own came to life, cupped his fingers so gently that Arthur almost couldn't feel them. He lay there in confusion and waited.

There was a small clicking noise, and the room was suddenly lit by the soft glow of a lamp. Arthur squinted out of instinct. He saw a gray-white ceiling . . . a round overhead light . . . some shadows. . . . Was he in a bedroom?

"Arthur? Are you awake?" a voice asked softly.

Arthur flinched. Once he'd made sense of the question, he tried to say "yes," and his mouth worked at it, but nothing happened. He attempted it again. Same result. All that came out was a very faint, sickly wheeze. His throat really hurt — so much that he had to close his eyes for a few seconds.

"It's okay, Arthur. Don't push yourself. Can you look at me?"

Arthur's neck creaked in protest, but he managed to twist it to the side so he could see the speaker. A pair of warm green eyes looked levelly back at him. It took what felt like an eternity for Arthur to match the face to a name. He mouthed it, with bewilderment and some disbelief.

_Antonio?_

Antonio nodded, face reassuring but concerned. "How do you feel?"

Arthur considered it. _My throat hurts_, he finally said, his lips forming the words without his voice. He wondered if Antonio could lip-read well enough to understand him.

Apparently Antonio could. "Yes, I would think so." His usually mellow tone had acquired an edge. But his anger — if that was what it was — didn't seem to be directed at Arthur. "It probably hurts a lot, after what happened tonight." Then he softened again. "Let me get you some water, and then you can go back to sleep, okay, _querido_? We'll talk properly in the morning. I'll be right back." Arthur's hand was laid carefully on the bed; then Antonio got up from the chair he'd been sitting in and left the room. Arthur watched him go, not quite knowing what to think.

_Where am I? _he wondered blankly. _What happened?_

True to his word, Antonio was back with a plastic cup of water in less than a minute. He helped Arthur sit up, then passed it to him, making sure Arthur's weak fingers had a good grip before letting go. For a moment, Arthur just stared down at his own wavery reflection in the cup; something was trying to push to the forefront of his mind, something about fear and drugs and the past, but the wall that had erected itself inside his head was dulling the thought, shutting it out.

Was it something that he should be worried about? No, it wasn't. Everything was okay. Antonio was there with him; Antonio was safe. Antonio wouldn't hurt him. Arthur closed his eyes and sipped at the water, letting its coolness seep across his tongue, before handing the cup back. His throat stung uncomfortably.

_Where am I?_ he asked, watching Antonio set the cup on the nightstand. He repeated himself when Antonio looked at him questioningly, stretching the words out a little to make them clearer and easier to read.

"You're at my place," Antonio said. "My apartment." He laid a soothing hand over Arthur's. Suddenly wanting the contact, Arthur turned his hand over and laced their fingers together, feeling the warmth of Antonio's palm against his own. It gave him a small bit of strength, enough for him to ask the next crucial question.

_What happened?_

Antonio's mouth tightened. "Gilbert was . . . performing some unsafe practices on you. You were already passed out when Francis dropped by to see him." He blew out a tense breath. "His visit was just a coincidence. But even so, he was there in time to put a stop to it."

Francis? Francis Bonnefoy? His old on-again, off-again client who was, for the most part, concerned only with his own interests? Arthur felt more confused than ever. There was so much he wanted to ask — fifty new questions hovered on the tip of his tongue — but Antonio was shaking his head.

"Let's continue this in the morning. It's really late. I don't know how long it will take your voice to come back, but you need to rest." He leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on Arthur's cheek. "I'll still be here when you wake up, so sleep easy, _querido_. We'll talk soon. I promise."

Struck by the sudden, irrational fear of being left regardless of Antonio's assurance, Arthur clutched his hand. _Please stay. Please . . ._ He glanced at the empty spot on the bed next to him. He felt so utterly helpless and pathetic, but . . . he couldn't. For the first time, he couldn't stand the thought of being alone. _Please stay with me._

He watched understanding dawn in Antonio's eyes. But all Antonio did was brush the hair out of Arthur's face, his thumb alighting softly on Arthur's cheek. He didn't say anything.

There were a lot of emotions in his expression: compassion, solace, exhaustion, worry, regret. The glow from the lamp gilded his light brown skin — and in that moment, Arthur found himself thinking that Antonio was beautiful, and instead of the twinge of jealousy he had felt in the past . . . he thought, if only he had fallen in love with Antonio, and Antonio with him, everything might have been fairy-tale-ending-happy for them. He could see in Antonio's face, could feel in his touch, that he was thinking the same. If only things were different. If only they lived in a more perfect world. If only.

But they weren't, and they didn't. There were too many things standing between them, separating them. Arthur knew they would never — _could_ never — be together that way.

_If only._

He finally understood what Antonio had meant when he'd said, so many weeks ago, "I don't have what you want from me." He'd known that there was no use in hoping for things that would never come true. To some extent, they'd both known. And that was what Antonio's kiss tasted like: a realm of precious impossibilities, forever beyond their grasp.

Antonio didn't touch Arthur the way he had in the past, and Arthur didn't feel the temptation, the need, to spread his legs for him. This time, when Antonio joined Arthur on the bed, under the covers, it wasn't about sex. It wasn't about giving or taking pleasure. It wasn't even about the comfort they found in each other's arms, and in each other's bodies.

It was about the future. It was about everything that could have been, but wasn't.

It was a different kind of heartbreak.


	28. Twenty eight

**-x-x-x-**

* * *

><p><strong>Twenty-eight<strong>

* * *

><p>Sleep finally let Arthur go sometime late in the afternoon, and he woke to an aching body and an empty bed. He fisted the warm sheets in a panic when he couldn't remember where he was — then he heard the sound of Antonio's voice, low and smooth, in another room, and slowly relaxed again as his memories came trickling back. He was at Antonio's . . . safe from Gilbert for the time being. Safe from everything. Thankfully.<p>

He touched a hand to his throat, probed the swollen skin with cautious fingertips. Black and blue and purple, without a doubt; Arthur didn't need a mirror for confirmation. He'd had enough experience with bruises. More experience than he needed, actually.

And he still felt so tired, even though he'd been out like a light for . . . how long? Time was all muddled inside his head, a layer of thick gel coating his mind; seconds were intermittently long and short, in and out of focus, like glimpses through a microscope that needed adjusting. Arthur glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand and, with mild surprise, realized he'd slept for nearly twenty-four hours. No wonder he felt so sluggish. His body was trying to get used to being awake again.

Even though every muscle burned, he rolled over and propped himself up on his elbows, then slowly rose up on his hands to settle atop his folded legs in an upright position. Vertigo threatened to make him keel over, but he resisted. He didn't want to go back to sleep. Part of him was scared that if he did, he wouldn't wake up a second time, even though that didn't make any sense. But instinct and raw emotion had always had a more powerful effect on him than logic, and Arthur was in no shape to contend with that now. For a while, he just sat there, patiently waiting as his awareness returned and his sleepiness dissipated, the pieces of the world around him fitting together, his perception sharpening and his head clearing enough for him to assess the situation. He noted vaguely that he was wearing an unfamiliar T-shirt and shorts. Probably Antonio's.

His neck garnered a lot of attention when it came to which part of his body hurt the most, after having experienced the brunt of Gilbert's rough treatment. His privates also ached something really awful; Arthur was kind of in wonder that he still had any at all. Then there was his back — that's right, he'd gotten that tattoo from Elizaveta, which was why he was at Antonio's in the first place — which was more sensitive than actually sore. And his tender nipples chafed against the cotton of the T-shirt. But all in all . . . he was still in one piece. Nothing to complain about; nothing he couldn't deal with on his own.

There were footsteps behind him. Arthur turned. Antonio was standing in the doorway, dressed in a crisp button-up and jeans, with his coat over one arm. He looked like he was preparing to go out, but instead of giving off the usual rushed impression that most people did when they had to be somewhere, he crossed the room to the bed and sat down next to Arthur like they had all the time in the world.

"Are you feeling better?" he asked, the warmth in his tone showing that he genuinely cared. Arthur nodded. "That's good. Has your voice come back?"

"I think so. Yes." The words came out a little creaky. Arthur cleared his throat, ignoring the pain that flickered around his tonsils.

Relief spread across Antonio's face. "Wonderful. I have to leave shortly, but I want to talk about a few things with you before I go — things that can't wait, and things that you may want to know as soon as possible. It shouldn't take long. Do you want some water or food first? Are you hungry? I can fix something up for you; or there's fruit, if you'd prefer."

Mutely, Arthur shook his head. The thought of food made his stomach turn over. "Have you . . ." He hesitated. "Have you heard from Gilbert? Has he said anything about . . . ?"

"I was on the phone with him this morning," Antonio said carefully. "He — well, he made it clear that he's not going to welcome you back. I'm actually going in a few minutes to see a client first, and then to pick your things up from his place. Do you have somewhere to go?" He could probably tell from Arthur's expression that no, Arthur _didn't_ have anywhere else to go, that he hadn't had a place to truly call "home" in years. That was most likely why Antonio followed up with, "Would you mind staying with me?"

Arthur looked down at his hands. The scars there were thin and fuzzy around the edges, like someone had draped a net of loose threads over his knuckles. He slowly uncurled his fingers. The ones that had been fractured were slightly crooked if he curved them the right way.

He used to be proud of having beautiful hands, before things like that had stopped mattering. Pianist's hands. Writer's hands. The hands of someone skilled in the arts, someone whose life had direction, someone who possessed grace and class and a future full of accomplishments that could be framed on walls or displayed on gilded shelves.

It struck Arthur, with a last, cruel blow, that he was the one who ruined his own hands. No one else. It was like the deeper corruption in him was manifesting itself on the surface of his body, where he could no longer hide it from the rest of the world. His imperfection, his ugliness, his defects — they didn't come from the outside. They came from within.

He raised his head up and took in Antonio's face like he was seeing him for the first time. No scars, no blemishes, no gauntness. Only clear, perfect skin and naturally handsome features. There was life in Antonio's eyes, a spark that Arthur knew was long gone from his own.

How come Antonio wasn't like Arthur? How come the same diseased lifestyle that had destroyed Arthur, the one that had turned Arthur into some dead thing pulled out of the gutter, didn't even seem to _touch_ Antonio?

"Arthur?" Antonio said gently. "Will you stay with me?"

The hopelessness in Arthur suddenly twisted into a craving. He wanted Antonio's vitality. Vitality attracted people; it made Antonio personable, and somehow, it negated Antonio's sins and made him into someone who seemed to be worth something, even though he was also a prostitute. Arthur wanted that to be true for himself. He needed it.

The abrupt strength and forcefulness of the desire that he hadn't known he had terrified him.

"Yes." Arthur shut his eyes. "Please."

"All right. It's settled, then," Antonio said, smiling. He sounded truly glad. "One more major thing, and I'll have to be on my way. Do you remember Alfred?"

The name made Arthur snap his head up. _Alfred_. He'd forgotten. Somehow, he'd forgotten. He almost choked on the air he was breathing. "Alfred?"

"Alfred Jones," Antonio confirmed.

"What — how do you —"

"We met at the café three days ago, remember? Or rather, we saw each other for a few seconds, and then we parted immediately afterward without really being introduced." Antonio seemed amused by the memory, for some reason. "I already knew about him beforehand from Gilbert, but that was the first time I saw him in person."

All of Arthur's mental guards slammed up. He didn't know how he felt. He couldn't put a name to the intense emotion that Alfred's name evoked in him, and that made his own vulnerability painfully obvious, so he quickly retreated to a safer place inside himself and waited, listening intently.

"He's been calling Gilbert every chance he's gotten since we crossed paths, apparently, and Gilbert's been ignoring him because he thought Alfred would distract you from what needed to be done. Now that you're no longer Gilbert's responsibility, however . . . he wants nothing more to do with Alfred, and so redirected Alfred to me. He also gave me a list of your clients' numbers after I talked to him some more. I thought you would want it if you plan to keep doing our line of work," Antonio said, then stopped, like he was giving Arthur a chance to speak.

It was just as well, because Arthur's mind was racing. Gilbert was handing him over? Just like that? Four years' worth of training and profits and having a nice little sex slave . . . Arthur couldn't believe it. It was such an uncharacteristic move on Gilbert's part that there _must_ have been something else that convinced him, something beyond Arthur's disobedience with the tattoo and Antonio's persuasion. Yes, Gilbert didn't particularly care for Arthur, but he'd still sooner kill him than let him go like that, if only on principle.

So what was the catch?

"Why would he?" asked Arthur slowly, trying to figure it out.

Antonio didn't seem surprised by the question. "Truthfully, Gilbert thinks you've been . . . _involved_ with Elizaveta. And he's . . . not very pleased about that."

Arthur was struck speechless. He stared at Antonio. _What?_ he thought blindly.

"Because he says she did your tattoo for you, for free, behind his back," Antonio clarified when Arthur failed to say anything. "And because she's pregnant and won't tell him who the father is. He said he went to see her last night, after Francis and I brought you here. They argued, and now she won't speak to him anymore." He watched Arthur, though his gaze wasn't judgmental — merely curious. "It isn't really any of my business, and I'll respect your privacy if you don't want to answer, but . . . is it yours? Her baby?"

"No," Arthur said immediately, still shocked.

But the revelation of Gilbert's real motive to get rid of Arthur wasn't even the most unexpected part. There was no suspicion or accusation in Antonio's eyes, no disbelief at all. He just accepted Arthur's reply without question. "I didn't think so," he said thoughtfully. "It's Gilbert's, isn't it?" When he noticed Arthur's expression, he smiled again. "It's not that hard to piece together. I've met Elizaveta, and I've seen the two of them around each other. They may act like whatever they once had is over and done with, but I know for certain that Gilbert hasn't gotten over their past, and Elizaveta . . . well, she's a strong woman, but Gilbert seems to get to her more deeply than she lets on."

Arthur didn't know what to say.

"Anyway." Antonio cleared his throat. "About Alfred. I was actually just on the phone with him a little while ago — he wants to see you." He paused. "He said to tell you that he wants to see you not as a client, but as a friend. So if you're feeling up to it, _querido_ . . ."

Surprise after surprise. And barely enough time in between to make sense of it all. Suddenly hot and cold all over, Arthur gripped the fabric of the shorts he wore. "Today?" he whispered. "Now?"

"Would you prefer that?" There was sympathy in Antonio's face. "I was actually going to suggest that you rest some more so you can make a full recovery, and then see him when you're completely well again. It's your choice, though. I'll call him and have him meet you here in a few hours if you think that'll be better." Underlying his words was the implication that unlike Gilbert, he was going to respect Arthur's private affairs and _not_ order him against his will, or order him at all. It was such a foreign concept to Arthur that for a few moments, he felt lost, almost like he didn't know what to do with himself now that he had been given freedom.

But that particular dilemma could wait; there was a more important one that needed his attention. It had been a long time since he'd been with Alfred alone. Arthur wasn't sure he was ready to face him. There were too many things that could go wrong . . . there were too many things that had _already_ gone wrong. The image of Alfred's hurt face from the incident at the café floated to the forefront of his mind, a taunting reminder. If that chance encounter had established one fact, it was that Alfred clearly believed Arthur was already spoken for.

So why did he want to see Arthur? So he could yell at him for having no morals, and assert that he would never dump Vanessa for a worthless whore?

_But . . . he wants to see me as a friend, not as a client. That has to mean something._ Arthur clung to those words. Out of nowhere, he pictured a story that he had read as a child: the story of Pandora's box. Pandora's curiosity had loosed countless evils on mankind when she'd opened the box . . . but there had been one thing left, buried out of sight until everything else had fled. Hope.

Arthur imagined that he was holding Pandora's box in his scarred hands. He imagined the one thing he had left to lose — the one thing he hadn't known he could still possess — and made his decision.

"I want to see him today."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I swear to God that writing this AU breaks my heart. . . . Anyway, a few things. First, I've posted a new poll on my profile that has to do with TCOA, so please check it out when you get the chance (if you haven't already). And second, I gave in to a random bout of ADD a few days ago and started compiling an FST for this AU when I was supposed to be doing other stuff. Just thought you guys might want to know, haha. We'll see where it goes. As always, thank you for reading, and I highly appreciate reviews! **

**(Oh, and updates will probably pick up once all of my college supplements are done. Which will be soon, hopefully . . .)**


	29. Twenty nine

**-x-x-x-**

* * *

><p><strong>Twenty-nine<strong>

* * *

><p><em>When he arrives, just let him in and lock the door. Here, I've written the number for my cell phone on this piece of paper; I'll leave it on the counter in the kitchen. You can use the landline if you need to call me, and I'll try to get back as soon as I can. Don't worry, <em>querido_, you'll be in good hands._

It had been twenty-three minutes since Antonio had left, and Arthur was sitting on the couch, his whole body tense, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the front door like he expected Alfred to walk right through the wood at any moment. In the past ten minutes, he'd had to force himself to relax his grip on the seat cushions half a dozen times; his knuckles and joints were already sore with the effort. It didn't help that he'd also made himself lightheaded with bouts of unintentional hyperventilation.

_Calm down_, he thought to himself. _Don't overthink the situation. Breathe normally. _He forced himself to take a slow, deep breath, and his nerves settled a bit. _That's better. Now clear your mind, and let your thoughts focus on nothing . . ._

Once upon a time, this type of self-coaching had worked. Whether he had been recovering from an intense, painful tryst with Gilbert in the middle of the night or simply sitting in his old bedroom first thing in the morning, he had always been able to find solace in the mental emptiness that he'd come to associate with being conductive to his sanity. It calmed him, comforted him, allowed him a reprieve from reality . . . it was the safe haven that he couldn't find in the real world, the one place of which no one — not even Gilbert — could come within arm's reach. It was like having a friend with no face, no body, no judgments or demands. A friend who didn't have to speak or listen, but was instead just content to _be_. Time and time again, it had served as his escape when he could find no other.

But something had shifted. Something had _changed_. Now Arthur couldn't close his eyes and let that place enfold him in its cool embrace. He had to seek it out; and even when he did, his mind refused to submit to its numbing relief. His thoughts still spun and crackled and buzzed. They were so aglow with irrepressible activity that they chased away the darkness he wanted so badly. It was as if he had had a dimmer switch in the back of his head since he was born, and it had been turned down on low all his life, only to be pushed up to a blindingly bright setting by the events of the past month. And that was where it had stuck, unsympathetic, drowning him in eternal light while denying him the true repose he needed.

Arthur pressed a palm to his forehead. He suddenly felt so incredibly tired, so incredibly old. He would have given anything to be back in Antonio's soft bed with his cheek on a pillow and his awareness softened by dreamless sleep. What had he been thinking? He wasn't ready to see Alfred. He wasn't ready to see _anyone_. His body and mind were a mess that he needed time to sort out before he could —

_Knock knock._

He froze. What? Was he here already? He could have sworn Antonio had said it'd be a few hours before —

_Knock knock knock._

Rising on trembling knees, Arthur went to the door. It took six long seconds for his clumsy fingers to get the chain unlatched, and that was enough time to set his nerves tingling madly. Once everything was out of the way, he pulled the door open a sliver and peeked through, heart in throat.

Oh, God. It really was him. Arthur's hand unconsciously tugged at the doorknob, widening the gap, even as the rest of him screamed with reluctance and desire and hope and mistrust.

"Hey, Arthur." Alfred looked different from when they'd last seen each other at the café. More subdued. Less . . . happy, if that was the right word. But it wasn't exactly a measure of happiness, Arthur thought. There was something about Alfred that usually gave off light (lightness? Light_hearted_ness?), and now that light was simmering quietly instead of bursting at the seams. So no, it wasn't . . . a lack of _happiness_, exactly. Energy, perhaps? Enthusiasm?

Whatever it was, it was ironic that Alfred had lost some while Arthur had gained some, and that neither of them was better off for it.

"Hello," Arthur replied. He stepped aside to let Alfred in (was he holding something? Alfred kept it to the side and slightly behind him, so Arthur couldn't tell what it was), and the two of them settled awkwardly on the couch, side-by-side. Alfred's spine was straight, his posture stiff, his limbs positioned at odd angles as if he didn't know what to do with them. It made Arthur feel uncomfortable just looking at him. He glanced down at his own hands, carefully weaved his fingers together. The silence stretched.

Alfred finally spoke. "I got you something," he said with more of his natural warmth, and placed the item he'd been holding in Arthur's lap. It was a small box-shaped gift, wrapped in red-gold-green-striped paper and graced with a sparkling bow. Arthur looked at it, bemused. The feeling that accompanied the reception of a present was long lost on him; it was like trying to remember what it was like to laugh. It had been too long. It wasn't his birthday, was it? No, that was several months ago, and how would Alfred know his birthday anyway? He put a finger to the bow, felt its crusty glitter and the smooth satin underneath, and raised his head.

"What is this for?"

Alfred smiled. No, he beamed; he _dazzled_, in all his enthusiastic glory, and Arthur's heart missed a beat. "It's to say 'Merry Christmas!' You know, even though Christmas was like four days ago. I'm sorry I couldn't have gotten it to you sooner. I would've, but . . ." His brightness dimmed a notch.

The memory of the café hovered over their heads like a vulture. But it didn't strike just yet, and for that, Arthur was more than thankful. He stared at Alfred, trying to find something to say, to press forward so that they could fend off that particular conversation for as long as possible. "Christmas?" he repeated.

"Yup! Christmas." Alfred blinked. "Um . . . do you celebrate Christmas? I mean, you're not Jewish or anything, right?" he added, clearly nervous. "'Cause it can also totally be a Hanukkah present . . ."

Ducking his head, Arthur ran his fingers over the bow again. "I'm not Jewish." He glanced up at Alfred through his eyelashes, suddenly at a loss despite the social cues he knew he was supposed to recognize. "I'm not . . . Christian, either. So, no . . . I've never really celebrated Christmas." He hesitated, and turned the wrapped box over in his hands. It felt foreign, but comfortable. Enticing. He wondered what was inside, and at the same time, wondered if it would be rude of him to give it back and say that if there was one person in the world who didn't deserve something as precious as a present, it was himself.

Alfred's brow furrowed, and he scooted a little closer, earnest. "You don't really have to be Christian to celebrate Christmas. It's all about giving and getting cool stuff and spending time with family and eating lots of food. And carrying out fun traditions, like buying a tree and decorating it with popcorn and angels. It just gives you a warm, happy feeling, you know? It doesn't have to be about — Arthur? Are you okay?"

Hearing "family" and "food" — especially in one sentence about a holiday that was supposed to bring people joy — had been a little too much. Arthur realized he'd flinched rather violently. He sucked in a shaky breath. "Yes. I'm fine."

Alfred didn't seem convinced; he was worrying his lower lip, slightly wide-eyed. "Was . . . was it something I said? I'm so sorry . . . I didn't mean to —"

"No. Really. It's nothing." To avoid unwanted scrutiny, Arthur dipped his gaze back down to the gift in his lap. Once more, he went to touch the ribbon. He rubbed the material and watched the glitter sprinkle across his palms, tiny little stars that winked up at him like temptation. They dazzled, too.

He was still studying his own hands when he was aware that silence had fallen again, this time of a different nature. Then large, gentle hands were taking his, gathering them up with the utmost care, turning them over so that his painfully thin knuckles and the cruel little scars etched into them were in plain view.

For a minute or so, all Alfred did was look at them, his face inscrutable. Arthur was almost afraid to pull away; he remembered the fleeting, protective anger Alfred had displayed when he'd first noticed the bruises near his shoulders, then again at the café when he'd seen the splints. He didn't want to see that again. It made him think that perhaps he couldn't trust Alfred any more than he could trust Gilbert, and the thought was so disconsonant and repulsive to him that he immediately shut it out the moment it came to mind.

"I'd been wondering," Alfred said quietly, thoughtfully. He thumbed the crooked curve of Arthur's ring finger, skin ghosting over skin. A mere whisper of feeling. "If your hands were okay, I mean. If _you_ were okay." He locked eyes with Arthur. "Why do you let people do this to you?" It was asked innocently, devoid of accusation. But there was pain in Alfred's voice — he knew. He knew it hadn't happened because Arthur had been careless around a door. Arthur didn't know if someone had told him the truth, or if he'd figured it out himself, but he felt a rush of hot shame. Whatever reply he'd intended to give died in his throat. There was no use in denying it; Alfred _knew_.

And yet, at the same time, Alfred would never understand. No, Alfred wasn't stupid; that wasn't it at all. It was just . . . they came from completely different worlds. Arthur could tell Alfred wasn't the kind of person to turn to such a dark path in life, no matter how desperate he got. There was always an alternative for Alfred if he looked hard enough, if he imagined it was there. Things for Arthur, on the other hand, hadn't been like that when he'd been forced to make the choice that changed his life. He'd lacked the skill of projected optimism; he still did.

"I'm sorry," he said coolly, and it felt as if he was apologizing to Alfred for his own weakness. He faded away from them both, mechanically removing his hands from Alfred's grasp, putting more distance between them. Not fighting, not fleeing, just . . . disengaging himself from reality.

In that instant, a look of absolute helplessness came over Alfred's face. "Oh, jeez, no . . . crap. I didn't mean to sound like a jerk. I didn't come here to . . . to _hurt_ you, like everyone else. I just —"

Something about the way he said "everyone else," something about his naïve certainty, was almost . . . insulting to Arthur. He thought of Antonio and Elizaveta, and suddenly it was like Alfred was cheapening their kindness with his generic assumption. It touched a nerve.

"Like everyone else?" Arthur interrupted, his voice sharp in his own ears. "_Everyone else_? What makes you think that _everyone else_ is out to hurt me? I have kind people in my life; kind, worthwhile people who have been there for me when no one else was. People who have never and will never cause me harm. So don't you dare throw your pity at me. I don't need it. I don't _want_ it." He hunched his shoulders.

Alfred looked stricken. "What? I'm — that's not what I'm trying to do, I swear!" He shook his head, his hands rising up to run through his hair in frustration. "Dammit, everything is coming out wrong. This isn't going how I thought it'd go. I had it all planned out . . . and now I'm just making things worse."

Arthur wanted to be unsympathetic. He wanted to close his heart off the way he'd gotten so good at doing. But he looked at Alfred, _really_ looked at him, and it occurred to him right then that here was a young man who had everything going for him and yet still managed to be even more lost than Arthur. It was such a novel realization that Arthur stopped bristling and, instead, marveled wryly at the unfairness of life. _For all of his adult sexual appeal, _he thought as he watched Alfred scrub his hair for a few seconds, then push his glasses up the bridge of his nose, _he's still a child on the inside._

He said, "Alfred."

"Y-yeah?"

"It's all right." Arthur closed his eyes to compose himself before opening them again. The words sounded bizarre even in his head, but there was at least some truth in them, and they would keep going in circles until Alfred acknowledged it. "You don't have to keep trying to be my hero."

A moment passed. Then another. It was so quiet, the silence echoed.

Alfred's jaw worked soundlessly for a few seconds. Then . . . "Does that mean . . . that you . . . already have someone?" he asked finally. So hopeful, so resigning, so fragile. ". . . To be your hero?"

"Some people can make do without heroes," Arthur said simply. He knew that he was sending Alfred a message within a message; he sat with bated breath as he watched Alfred's eyes widen in confusion and disbelief. It was like Alfred couldn't grasp the concept that it was possible for someone to feel that not everyone needed saving.

"Oh. I . . ." Alfred looked down at Arthur's hands, then up at his face. "I wanted to know because I want you to be okay even when I'm not around. I . . . won't be able to see you anymore."

The news made every cell in Arthur's body go into silent revolt, all at once. It was a phenomenal struggle not to let it show. As it was, his mouth was so dry he could barely get the word out. He set aside Alfred's gift aside with shaking hands. "Why?"

"I meant that I can't, you know, hire you again," Alfred clarified, and turned an endearing shade of red. "'I was originally using the money I'd been saving up for a car, and now . . ."

Arthur blinked. "So you can no longer pay."

"Yeah. But I still really want to be with you — just to hang out, not to do . . . that kind of stuff. I mean, it was . . . y'know, fun, but I'm kind of broke now and I just really want us to spend time together and talk and go on dates and — do you already have a boyfriend?" Alfred blurted all of a sudden. "'Cause at Angelíque's, you were with . . . and when you were leaving, I saw you . . ." He trailed off.

They stared at each other.

"No, I don't," Arthur said at last. "He's a friend." And with those two short sentences, the misunderstanding that had been haunting them for the past several days was finally resolved. The sheer weight that was lifted off Arthur's shoulders was indescribable.

It was clear that Alfred felt the same. A brilliant smile slowly lit up his face, and some of his old bounce came back. Soon, he was practically grinning from ear to ear, giddy as a ten-year-old with candy. "Oh. Okay. That's great, because I —" A small hesitation, as if he was trying to find the right words, but it didn't diminish his sincerity in the slightest. "I was gonna ask if . . . you'll go out with me?"

Arthur didn't know what to say.

As if to help him make up his mind, Alfred took his hands. Held them gently, but firmly. He looked Arthur right in the eye, and said more seriously, "Please be my boyfriend, Arthur. Please let me be your hero." This time, there was no waver in his tone, and no indecision.

Thoughts and emotions were forming an incomprehensible mess inside Arthur's head, one that would probably take weeks to untangle and examine. Arthur didn't have the luxury of weeks. He barely had the luxury of a minute — he was terrified of saying yes and opening up a future of shadow possibilities, and at the same time, terrified of saying no and losing Alfred to the rest of the world. And there were other factors to consider, weren't there?

"What about . . . Vanessa?"

Alfred shook his head. "We broke up two days ago. She's flying back to Taiwan next week to live with her mom and finish college there. Not _because_ we broke up, but . . . well, it was the other way around. I should've seen it coming," he admitted sheepishly. "She's been having a hard time with her dad and her stepmom. Uh, not her stepmom, actually . . . what do you call your dad's real wife when your dad and your mom were never, um, married?"

That was certainly news. Arthur raised his eyebrows. "You mean they had an affair?"

"Kind of. Yeah. When Vanessa's dad was on a business trip in Taiwan, they met, and . . . stuff happened."

"I see."

Alfred shuffled uncomfortably. "Her dad's wife is Chinese. From mainland China. Her dad and his wife are both Chinese. And from what Vanessa's told me, cheating is really uncommon in general with Chinese families. So her dad's wife really doesn't like Vanessa because, you know, but her dad insisted that Vanessa come live with them anyway for high school."

"And they've all suffered since," Arthur concluded for him. Alfred nodded.

"She has an older half-brother who drops by every now and then, and he isn't all that nice to her, either. Things've been really difficult for her. Which is why I didn't immediately break up with her after I talked to you; I didn't want to hurt her when she was already going through so much. . . ." That earnest intensity was back in Alfred's face. "I wasn't toying with you or anything. Honest. I hope you get that, Arthur. I really wasn't trying to one more person who couldn't keep a promise. I do truly want to be with you."

Arthur said nothing. It didn't seem real. It had actually happened — Alfred and Vanessa were over, and now Alfred was coming to him despite the fact that he wasn't looking for sex, despite that fact that Arthur was likely the most fucked up person he'd ever met. Despite chance and fate and the awful impressions they'd left on each other and the things and people that had tried to stand between them, knowingly or not. Despite absolutely everything.

They were still holding hands, he realized. Alfred hadn't let him go.

Just to be safe (was it safe? Or was it more of a gamble?), he chose to ask the sensible thing: "Why me?"

"Because you're strong, stronger than anyone I know," Alfred answered right away. "Because there's something about you that always makes me want to know more about who you are. Because you have a gorgeous smile and I want to see it more often — it reminds me of all the small things we appreciate in life and why we appreciate them. Because you say what's on your mind, and you don't care whether or not people will judge you because you believe in what you say. Because you don't try to make me feel good about being an idiot." He smiled self-consciously at that. "Because even with everything that you've been through, even with all of your scars . . . you're still here. And because your sadness makes you beautiful."

Arthur clutched his hands tighter, speech lost on his tongue.

Alfred squeezed back. "Do you want me to keep going? 'Cause I can."

_Yes. No. I don't know. _"We've hardly spent any time together," Arthur whispered. "How can you . . . ?"

"Because every second I spend with you makes me wish for sixty more," said Alfred firmly.

"But I'm _damaged_. . . ."

"Not to me."

Arthur tried one more time. "You . . . there were things that were done to me . . . that made me dirty. Disgusting. Impure. You shouldn't want to have anything to do with me. You shouldn't . . ." His voice cracked. "All the burdens that I have . . . all the misery that's going to carry over to you just by your being around me . . ."

"Arthur, none of us are perfect, but that's what makes life worth living. We learn from each other. We grow. We get to be better people by being cared about by other people. And to live, laugh, love — isn't that what all of us should experience before anything else? How can we do any of those things by ourselves and think that that's enough?"

Four years. That was how long that Arthur had been waiting for someone like Alfred to come along and say those things to him. Four long years of hostility, of distrust, of self-hate, of closing off, of mistake after mistake after mistake.

"Heroes are human, too." Alfred grinned lopsidedly. "So . . . can I be yours? Even though . . ." _Even though you feel that you don't need me to save you?_ were the unspoken words.

Arthur shut his eyes, and it was a new hope, a new relief. It was a feeling as old as time. "Yes."

_Because my sadness is beautiful to you._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: This was impossibly hard to write, especially over the course of a month. Mostly because I rarely do fluff and I'm not a very romantic person at heart, haha. I hope it came out okay. Thank you for reading! You'll find out what Arthur's present is soon enough. :)**

**By the way, I pretty much just put "Follow You" by Leeland on repeat when I wrote this. It's a really nice song. You should check it out if you don't know it already. XD**


	30. Thirty

**-x-x-x-**

* * *

><p><strong>Thirty<strong>

* * *

><p><em>Are you going to Scarborough Fair?<em>

_Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;_

_Remember me to one who lives there,_

_She once was a true love of mine._

Sitting at the small kitchen table Antonio owned, Arthur watched the little enamel unicorn spin on its pedestal of green and gold . . . and thought about how ironic the world was.

Perhaps ironic wasn't the right word. Coincidental, maybe? It was certainly coincidental that Alfred had given him a beautiful music box with a figurine that almost perfectly matched the tattoo he had gotten from Elizaveta. Arthur wondered if Alfred had known, somehow — if Antonio or someone had told him beforehand. But that wasn't possible. No one except Elizaveta had had any knowledge of the tattoo at all until Arthur had been forced to face Gilbert's wrath, and Arthur was fairly sure that Alfred and Elizaveta didn't know each other. It went without saying that Gilbert wouldn't have mentioned anything of it to Alfred, either.

And Alfred's surprise when he'd seen had been real enough. Apparently, Alfred had taken Arthur's speechlessness upon opening the present to be a sign of displeasure — his enthusiasm had wilted almost immediately, the light that usually glowed beneath his skin seeping out like spilled sunshine. And without thinking, Arthur had turned around and slid off his shirt and exposed his new tattoo to Alfred because he couldn't stand the sting that Alfred's downtrodden expression caused in his chest.

Then it had been Arthur's turn to feel uncertain and to mentally curse his own impulsiveness, because all Alfred did was stare. But then those insecurities were washed away just as quickly when he'd felt warm, gentle hands at the small of his back. Alfred's fingers, tentatively moving up his spine until they were mapping out the tender, inked skin with butterfly touches. The closeness . . . the _intimacy_ . . . it was indescribable. If pain had been what pushed him away from reality, if suffering had been what deadened his senses, then the feel of Alfred's hands on his raw skin was a live spark, an anchor for him to cling to. Feeling Alfred was feeling desire, feeling comfort, feeling safety. It was akin to waking up after a long night of slumber, sore and heavy and drowsy, but _alive_.

"Does it hurt?" Alfred had asked, voice full of the same quiet wonder that Arthur felt.

"A little. It's . . . more irritating than anything else. Please, gently."

"It's just like the one in the music box. It's beautiful." Arthur had startled slightly because Alfred's lips were right by his ear. He'd felt Alfred's hands shift again, experimental; they'd danced over the stepladder of his ribs, up his sides, around his waist before slowly coming to rest over his stomach. And then he was in Alfred's embrace, being held against a steady heartbeat with steady arms, and he had no words left in him to express how it felt.

What they had was still too new, too fragile, stretched too thin to approach head-on; it was barely tangible, as if the smallest touch could dissolve it like tissue paper in water. Though Arthur had wanted, on a deep, buried level, to engage in physical intimacy with Alfred again, it didn't feel right, not so soon after what they'd experienced. So they'd left it at that. Maybe . . . if Alfred confessing his feelings meant what Arthur believed it meant, there would be plenty of time for that kind of thing later on. And even if Alfred wasn't willing, if they didn't end up doing anything more than holding hands . . . Arthur realized that strangely, he was all right with that, too.

It was frightening and exhilarating, the thought of having a future.

After an hour — an hour filled with comfortable silences and easy small talk about Arthur's tattoo — Alfred had had to go. After promising to take Arthur on a real date sometime soon, Alfred had kissed his cheek, blushed like a bridesmaid, and made his exit. And a day later, Arthur had to admit to himself that he was still glowing inside.

He carefully turned the silver key on the back of the music box to wind it up again. His thoughts strayed into darker corners.

As much as he tried, he was unable to push away the thought of the list of contacts that Antonio had brought back with the cell phone. It was his decision, Antonio had told him when the slyly lingering subject had become too weighty to ignore. "Only you can decide whether or not to continue being a sex worker. It's your life, _querido_, and I don't have the right to tell you what to do with it. I'd be happy to share with you my opinions if you'd like to hear them, though." Ever the practical one, he'd suggested that it might be helpful if Arthur made a list of personal pros and cons and considered his options from there.

The list was folded and tucked away into the compartment at the bottom of the music box, which was made to hold jewelry, coins, buttons, or other things of the like. Arthur reached into it now and, with some hesitancy, drew out the piece of paper. His handwriting was slightly shaky, albeit fine and thin; the handwriting of someone whose pride was once his calligraphy, but who had neither the means nor the reason to practice it in the past four years.

The list was mostly complete, though every now and then he'd think of something new and jot it down under the appropriate heading. Writing everything that came to mind was hard and even humiliating, but he forced himself to do it, and to do it with absolute honesty; otherwise, what was the point? He was surer than he'd ever been that he wouldn't get anywhere by trying to fool himself. Not this time.

_Pros_

_- Means of support (for myself, to help Antonio with the rent, etc.)_

_- Pays well_

_- Only job that I'm decently qualified for_

_- Flexible work schedule_

_- Convenient city transportation_

_- Minimal stress now that I no longer have a contract to maintain with Gilbert_

_- No moral qualms in that area_

_- Serves as an outlet for my sex drive_

_- Gives me control over my body and what I do with it (and the fact that I'm doing it out of my own consent)_

_- Will be able to turn to Antonio for help/advice should I need it since he's in the same field_

_- Provides motivation to keep myself in good condition_

_Cons_

_- Risk of health problems, such as STDs_

_- Need to purchase condoms_

_- Need to make arrangements with clients on my own now_

_- Could be raped, cheated, manipulated, or killed_

_- Illegal; the danger of being arrested always present_

_- Don't want to endanger Antonio with my inexperience with handling clients on my own_

_- Don't want to burden Antonio in any way_

_- Morally wrong?_

He read over the list one more time, then took a pencil from the nearby counter and — with some degree of uncertainty — added at the end of the _Cons_ column: _Alfred_. And he spent the next fifteen minutes just sitting there, pencil in hand, staring down at that name.

What meant more to him? His "livelihood," or Alfred? Was it possible to have both . . . could they coexist, or were they mutually exclusive? At the end of the day, Arthur was reluctant to admit, Alfred was only a sophomore in college. Nineteen, still at the tail end of his teenage years and only just at the threshold of adulthood. Still so innocent, and unable to support Arthur financially (not that Arthur would ever ask that of him; the very thought of it made him intensely uncomfortable). And yet . . . he needed Alfred. Alfred had something that no one else had, a vitality and radiance and refreshing outlook on a cold, gray world. Alfred wanted to be his boyfriend. Alfred cared for him, and was in sole possession of a shard of his heart.

Arthur's grip on the pencil tightened until his knuckles were white.

What should he do? What _could_ he do?

* * *

><p><strong>AN: And now the story actually starts to pick up on the part that I've been waiting to get to since, I don't know, chapter three? . . . Nah. We still have a few more chapters to go before that happens, because I like dragging things out, apparently.**

**On a different note that's unrelated to TCOA, some of you may have noticed that I participated in Sweethearts Week again this year, and that the entries are posted on my account under the title "Love at a Glance." You may also have noticed that I did a rather half-assed job of it (as in, I never actually made it to day seven despite the amount of smut). ORZ So . . . I was hoping that you guys could pop over and give "Love at a Glance" a try, and let me know whether or not it's worth finishing. Thanks in advance if you do!**

**By the way, it has that bottom!merman!Alfred AU that I challenged myself to write last year, as well as the nude photography AU (which I have yet to post), if that interests any of you, haha.**


	31. (Hiatus Notice)

_Dear Readers, Fellow Writers, and Friends,_

After a long week of serious consideration, I've come to the decision to retire from the Hetalia fandom. Well, perhaps not "retire" in the exact sense of the word, but I'm definitely going on indefinite hiatus. As of now, I'm putting all of my fics (including the RPs) on hold for if (when?) I come back.

Personally, I hate being one of the authors who begins a multi-chapter story and then abandons it partway through, because as a reader, I know how extremely frustrating and unfulfilling it is to read a fantastic story and then be left hanging. But at the same time, I'd hate to force myself to write and produce less-than-quality work for something that I no longer enjoy as much as I once did - especially when that something used to mean so much to me, and when it still means so much to all of you. The last thing I want is to do you guys a disservice by writing chapters that aren't up to par, not when you've all shown me such indescribably touching kindness, support, patience, and faithfulness. So I've chosen instead to discontinue what I've started. I can only hope to live up to the name I've created for myself within this fandom, and depart amiably without leaving a bitter taste in anyone's mouth.

I won't hesitate at all to say that being part of the Hetalia fandom for almost two and a half years was an amazing, eye-opening experience - every moment of it. I've met so many phenomenal people, connected with so many other authors, gained insight into so many cultures, and improved so drastically as a writer and person myself. I don't regret any of it. You guys were my second family, and it hurts me to have to say goodbye to you all.

To keep my reasons for leaving the fandom short: these past few years have been hard. Not just because of school, but because of serious family issues that still need time to heal. Most of why I wrote fanfiction was because I had to find an outlet for my frustration and unhappiness by putting characters (mostly Arthur) in situations that were worse than the one I was in. I also went through a long series of failed relationships (some of which were emotionally abusive). However, I've finally found someone, and he gives me reason to hope that I will learn to accept and appreciate my various flaws. He's my Alfred, if you will, if I can pretend that I'm Arthur.

So . . . this is my goodbye, I suppose. You guys will never be far from my mind, and I hope sincerely that I'll be able to return one day to finish weaving the tales that I've begun. Thank you all so much. For everything.

_Wenn_


	32. Thirty one

**-x-x-x-**

* * *

><p><strong>Thirty-one<strong>

* * *

><p><em>He couldn't breathe. His chest and ribs wouldn't expand enough under so much weight and muscle. The air choked in his throat, and the pain drove cruel fingers into his lungs, talons in spongy-soft tissue. It hurt. Oh God, it hurt so much, it hurt so, so much . . .<em>

_And yet, it felt unbelievably good. Unbelievably_ right_._

_"Please." The word left his mouth like a prayer. A holy entreaty. "Please, harder, fuck me harder —_"_ He begged like a sinner begging for absolution._

_The cock in his ass obeyed, and his world was reduced to the most primitive forms of taste, touch, and smell. He tasted sex, felt sex, smelled sex. It was all sex, all salty cum and hard dicks and rough hands and hot, slapping flesh, and he loved it with every fiber of his being, because this was where he belonged. Under a nameless, faceless man, with his head thrown back against the pillow, his legs spread wide, his body drenching the plain sheets with sweat, his ass and insides punished beyond sensation. Dear God, he was a slut, and he loved it._

_And after he'd come, after he'd sprayed the bed with white and the man had sprayed his skin with the same, smearing it onto his body like some kind of obscene finger-painting, he asked for the money and he got it. The man took his wallet and overturned it in the air, letting the paper bills rain down all over him on the bed. And then the man took each bill between his meaty fingers and dragged it through the trails of cum, dirtying the money and dirtying him even more, because he was the slut, the prostitute, and he deserved every moment of it . . ._

Arthur jerked awake.

His phone was vibrating under his pillow, where he always kept it at night. He blinked the sleep from his eyes and pulled it out. It took a couple of tries; his hands were shaking uncontrollably.

Almost as quickly as it had gone off, though, the phone stopped. For a second, Arthur just stared at it in groggy incomprehension, trying to make sense of the letters on the small screen until "Missed call: Alfred Jones" was replaced by "New text from: Alfred Jones."

**hey arthur. srry culdnt sleep. r u up?**

Alfred's text-speak (and overall horrible spelling) was still a nuisance to read, but like every other time, Arthur couldn't stop a small smile from tugging at his mouth as he deciphered it and texted back. _I am now__. Did you call?__  
><em>

**srry for wakng u up. n yea, calld by accidnt. hit teh wrng button. i wuld def call u if my rmate was awake tho.**

_It's no problem. Is there a reason you decided to get in touch with me at two in the morning, or is it just because you couldn't sleep?_

Alfred's response came a minute later. **i had a bad dreem. :(**

Well, that made two of them. A strange coincidence, but Arthur felt more comfortable reassuring Alfred than recalling his own nightmare (could it even be called that? Especially when his dream self had so clearly enjoyed . . . but no, he didn't want to think about that. He couldn't).

_I see. Do you want to talk about it?_

The pause between his sent message and Alfred's reply stretched, and Arthur had begun to entertain the idea of maybe going back to sleep, if he could, when his phone vibrated again.

**it was about u. n ur job.**

That was how Alfred referred to it. Arthur knew he tried to avoid mentioning it at all if possible, but on the occasions that he had to, he hinted at it in the vaguest terms he could come up with. "Your job" had become the discreet default. Even so, Arthur's stomach still churned when it came up, despite the fact that if it weren't for his job, he would never have met Alfred. He was learning to live day by day, leaving behind his muddled, contaminated past. But it was a slow process. And there were some things he doubted he'd ever be able to think upon with total ease — this being one of them.

He hadn't completely given up on his job yet. He hadn't been able to. So far, nothing substantial had taken place — just contacting clients, letting them know the change in his situation, and asking them if they would still be interested in his services. Judging by the ones Arthur had talked to, most, if not all, of them were. None of them seemed to care that the middleman, Gilbert, would be gone from future exchanges. Why would they? All they were after was the sex. It was always the sex, followed by the money. It was the way the industry worked. And yet Arthur kept calling, kept asking, kept confirming without taking any real action, like he couldn't bring himself to potentially hurt Alfred but also, at the same time, couldn't bring himself to abandon his own hyper-self-awareness. Like his mind was still solely focused on his survival as an individual instead of his existence as a unit with Alfred.

Alfred didn't know about what he was doing; at least, Arthur didn't think he did. For all Alfred seemed to be aware of, Arthur had merely put his job on hold for the past couple of weeks, and would drop it entirely with time. No, Alfred didn't know about anything, really . . . Alfred was still too naïve, too trusting, too loving for his own good. And Arthur was too dead-set in his own ways to change, even though he was at risk of breaking the one heart he held as close as his own.

Perhaps it was never meant to be? Arthur sometimes found himself watching Antonio (he was still living in his apartment for free, sleeping on a spare mattress in the living room, and while Antonio didn't seem to mind a bit, Arthur had never stopped feeling guilty about it) and wondering if people who prostituted themselves through necessity ever truly found love. Wondering what they did with their lives, if it happened. How were they supposed to act? How did their lovers act? Or did they simply ignore it, and continue living the way they did, unaffected?

**arthur? r u still there?**

_Hardly_, Arthur thought, but texted back: _Yes. Sorry. I was distracted for a moment._ Reading back over their texts to ground himself again, his throat began to tighten with dread. He didn't want to hear about Alfred's nightmare. He didn't want to see Alfred describe something that might very well already be reality, or had once been reality, or would be become reality one day.

The buzz of the phone in his hand almost made him drop it. **i dreamd tht u were at a hotel w/ a cliant n u compltly fell fr him aftr u two had sex. the cliant wasnt me, btw.****  
><strong>

Well, Arthur had figured as much. But the dream was so tame compared to the dark possibilities that had been running through his head that his heart immediately lightened. Relieved, he quickly began typing.

_Don't worry. It was just a nightmare. You . . ._ He paused and felt his cheeks flush with heat, but pressed on. _You mean the world to me. I don't think what happened with you will ever happen again for me with anyone else._ He quickly pressed "Send" before he could talk himself out of it, heart pounding painfully hard.

He was acting like a teenager. It was ridiculous. He was just about to start chastising himself for it when his phone received Alfred's answer.

A less-than sign, followed by a "3." A little black heart, along with: **thnx. its teh same fr me.**

Arthur allowed himself a tiny smile.

**actuly, i thnk i can sleep now. thnx alot. cant wait to see u agan soon! :)**

Which would it be? Alfred, or his clients — his love, or his job? Arthur bit his lip. It was late at night, and he was too tired and vulnerable to be making large decisions like that. He needed more time. More consideration. More consulting, more weighing of pros and cons, and more logical balance. But for now, he decided to go with his instinct instead of his reason so that he, too, could live with himself in the morning.

_Good night, Alfred. Sweet dreams._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I'm back. Did anyone miss me? Haha.**


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